


Murder on the Page

by Patricia_Holm, PromisesArePieCrust, propangel



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU Series 2, Case Fic, Collaborators - Freeform, F/M, Flemish, French, Mild Smut, Pre-Phrack - Freeform, Rare Books, World War 1, bookstore, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:58:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16694134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patricia_Holm/pseuds/Patricia_Holm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust, https://archiveofourown.org/users/propangel/pseuds/propangel
Summary: Phryne's friend and bookseller is assaulted in his bookstore. Jack asks for her help to investigate.  Phryne and Dot take over running the shop while he recovers in hospital and to try and help find out who the assailant is.  As they investigate they discover a dark secret from the war which makes them wonder if they really care to find out what happened after all.This mystery is pre-established Phrack and somewhere in the middle of Season 2 - after Blood at the Wheel but before Unnatural Habits.





	1. Chapter 1

“Miss Fisher, Inspector Robinson on the telephone.” Mr. Butler’s firm voice roused Phryne from her reading. She was enjoying a new edition of Villon while relaxing in the sunshine on the chaise in her parlour. She stretched languorously and walked over to the phone in the hallway. 

“Jack,” she said lazily, “you have interrupted my French day dreams. I trust it is important.”

“I hope the return to earth wasn’t too shocking for you.”

“You know me Jack, nothing is too shocking.”

“My latest crime victim has asked that I call you and invite you to participate in the investigation.”

“Now that does shock me, Inspector. You inviting me into a case rather than ushering me out. I may have to get out my smelling salts.”

Phryne could hear Jack rolling his eyes in the tone of his voice as he replied, “try not to get over excited Miss Fisher, we don’t want you to get a strain.”

“I think you will find it very difficult to over excite me, Inspector.” Phryne paused for effect wishing she could see whether Jack’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the thought. “Where shall I report for duty?”

“Librarie d’esprit,” Jack replied. “It is in the eastern market area.”

“I know it well, Jack. Is Natan alright?”

“He requested your involvement in the case. Come down here and meet me and I will fill you in in person.”

“I will be right there.” Phryne hung up the phone and looked thoughtful as she called to Mr. Butler, “bring out the Hispano, and tell Dot to get her hat. We are going to the book store.”

“Yes, Miss,” Mr. Butler replied and headed back though into the kitchen.

“Where are we going, Miss,” Dot asked as she pinned her hat on. She had enough experience driving with Miss Fisher to know that one wore an unpinned hat at their peril. 

“To the Librarie d’esprit. The Inspector is there and says that Natan Phillippe has specifically requested us.” 

“Will Constable Collins be there?” Dot always looked forward to ‘bumping into’ her beau. 

“I don’t know, Dot, but let’s hope. Off we go.” Phryne put the car into gear and sped away in a flourish of squealing tires. 

The Librarie d’esprit was located in a busy corner of the area around the eastern market in Melbourne. Its neighbours were family owned cobblers and haberdasheries. It had a reputation as the best place in the city to purchase first editions and quality art books as well as a wide range of more popular items including the latest murder mysteries. Phryne had discovered the shop early on her return to Melbourne and had bought and sold a number of books through Natan Phillippe. As an émigré from France after the war, Natan provided a connection to her years as a young artist’s model in Paris. While some of the memories were dark, many were full of the life and energy of a city recovering after trauma. 

Phryne and Dot walked into the shop and were greeted by the familiar smell of dust and leather bindings but the unfamiliar scene of disruption as books were scattered on the floor and the front desk was overturned. Jack and Constable Hugh Collins were standing together near the rear entrance. 

“Hello, Jack,” Phryne swept over to the Inspector and he smiled when he saw her. “What are we looking at?”

“Natan Phillippe was found here this morning badly beaten. He has been taken to University Hospital.”

“But he was conscious enough to ask for me?” Phryne sounded worried.

“Yes, he was conscious but the ambulance attendant said it looked like a lot of broken bones and possibly a punctured lung. He will likely have to have some surgery and a period of recovery.”

“Poor Natan. I can’t imagine who would want to harm him.”

“Too bad. I was hoping that by asking for you he might have thought you would know who did it.” 

“No idea and I take it from the question he didn’t say.”

“No. He was somewhat tight-lipped only asking for you.” 

“So you think he might know who the assailant was?”

“I do. I plan to question him more closely when his injuries have been treated.”

“The shop is a mess. Was he also robbed?”

“Not of any money. The cash drawer was empty but he said that he had emptied it himself yesterday and put the money in the night deposit at the bank.”

“So why turn the shop upside down?” Phryne asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Why thank you, Jack,” Phryne said with a tilt of her head and a grin.

Jack continued as if he hadn’t noticed her taunt. “They were obviously looking for something else. I am hoping we can find some kind of inventory that will help us check to see if a book or something is missing.”

“Natan did deal in some very valuable books. Though I wouldn’t have thought bibliophiles were all that violent.”

“You include yourself in the definition of bibliophile, Miss Fisher?”

“Of course, but I don’t include myself in the definition of violent, Inspector.” She tilted her head flirtatiously. “Except, of course, when absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two detectives looked around at the books strewn across the floor. Phryne picked up a few to examine the spines.

“Did Monsieur Phillippe have an assistant or partner in the business?” Jack asked.

“Not that I know of. I only dealt with him. He was very protective of his collections. Unlike many booksellers, he actually catalogued his books using the Dewey Decimal system and kept them in order. There is nothing more irritating than a bookshop where the books are organized willy-nilly or not at all.” 

“So we should be able to reconstruct the order of the books, but that won’t necessarily help us know what is missing,” Jack observed. 

“For that we will need to talk to Natan. If you don’t need me here, perhaps I will go over to University Hospital and see how he is. I would like to know more about why he thought he needed me on the case.” 

“I will come with you, Miss Fisher, as I have not yet had a chance to interview him.” 

“Wonderful, we came in the Hispano. I will drive.”

“Within the rules of the road, I trust.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Fine.” Phryne pouted at him. “Dot, you stay here and help Constable Collins try to figure out what’s missing.”

“Miss Fisher,” Jack said sternly, “I will instruct my own Constable.”

“Of course, Jack, I was only trying to help.”

“Constable Collins, stay here and try and figure out what’s missing.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent, Jack.” Phryne tried not to look smug. “Now to the hospital.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jack and Phryne walked up the front steps of the hospital and into the foyer where they ran into Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan. Dr. Mac was Phryne’s oldest friend and a well-respected local physician. 

“Mac,” Phryne exclaimed on seeing her friend.

“Phryne, and hello Inspector Robinson. I take it you are here to see our poor bookseller.”

“Yes, Dr. MacMillan. How is he?” Jack asked.

“He is just coming out of sedation. We had to put him to sleep while we set his ribs. Some were only bruised but a few were broken. And we had to re-inflate his lung. It looks like he was both beaten and kicked several times.”

“Anything that might help us identify the assailant?” Jack was hoping there was some evidence left behind. 

“His clothes are in a bag beside the bed. I wasn’t sure if they needed to be sent to the medical examiner.”

“Thank you, Dr. MacMillan, please do forward them for further testing,” Jack directed. “Now can we speak to him?”

“You may, but he will be a bit groggy. Room 202.”

“Thank you, Mac,” Phryne said as she and Jack walked towards the stairs to the second floor. 

“That beating sounds especially vicious,” Phryne said crossly.

“It was. Brace yourself for how he looks. His face didn’t escape unscathed.” 

Natan Phillippe was a small but handsome, plump man in his mid-thirties. He had thinning salt and pepper hair and a small trimmed moustache. Lying in the hospital bed he looked so much smaller and less vibrant than Phryne remembered him in his bookshop where his energetic manner exuded a love of the art of books. 

His face was badly bruised and abraded and his left eye completely shut with swelling. His lips were also swollen and his ear was bandaged. 

“Phryne, ma cherie,” he spoke the words weakly as he saw her come in. 

Phryne reached out and hurried to sit by the bed and take her friend’s hand. “Natan, mon cher. Comment ça va?” 

“Bien, Phryne. I am alright. I am alive.”

“What happened, Natan?” 

As Jack watched the interchange he wondered if Natan was another of Phryne’s many lovers. He cleared his throat and Phryne was reminded of his presence. 

“Natan, this is Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victoria Police. He spoke to you earlier. He needs to ask you some questions.”

“Non, Phryne. No. I don’t want to speak with the police.”

“You don’t have much of a choice, Mr. Phillippe. A crime was committed.” Jack chose the anglicized salutation intentionally to ensure that he was not a party to the friendly relationship between Phryne and Natan. 

“If I don’t want to press charges, then it is no longer a police matter,” Natan mustered as much firmness as he could between the injuries and the laudanum.

“No, actually. I cannot stand idly by and allow a break in and a beating to go unresponded to. I have responsibilities.” 

“Phryne, can you assist?” Natan looked at Phryne with a plea for help clearly on his face. “I really don’t want this to be a police matter.”

“I don’t understand Natan. You were nearly killed. Don’t you want to have your assailant brought to justice.” Natan looked at Phryne and could see that she was sympathetic but still puzzled by his hesitancy.

“Alright, Inspector,” he said resignedly. “Ask me your questions.”

“First, Mr. Phillippe,” Jack stayed with the English form of address, “when did the assailant arrive at your shop?”

“About 10 pm. I was working late to complete my cataloguing of new books and closing the shop.” 

“Yet, you said before that you had already taken the night deposit to the bank.”

“Yes. I do that when I take my supper. Then I return and use the quiet evening time for work that requires more focus and attention.” 

“Did anyone follow you back from the bank?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you see the person who attacked you,” Phryne started asking questions.

“Not really. I had stepped away from my desk to the shelves and then someone grabbed me from behind and threw me down. Once I was on the floor they started kicking me.”

“Did you see anything about them? Were they male or female, tall, heavy?”

“I didn’t see them. They were bigger than me. I don’t think it could have been a woman. The light was dim as I only had the desk light on.” 

“Was there anything unusual in the books you were cataloguing, Natan?” Phryne inquired. 

“Well, they were quite valuable. I had just received a set of prints of Ansel Adams photographs from America.” 

“Beautiful, but not worth being nearly beaten to death,” Jack observed.

“You are familiar with Ansel Adams, Inspector,” Phryne raised her eyebrows at Jack.

“I think I once warned you not to peg me too early. I have many and varied interests.”

“You intrigue me all the more, Inspector.”

“Concentrate on the case, Miss Fisher.” 

“Natan, do you think you would recognize the person if you saw them again?” Phryne returned to her questions. 

“I don’t think so. I think it was just a petty criminal looking for easy money and when they realized that there wasn’t any money, they just beat me up for spite.” 

“Perhaps, Mr. Phillippe.”

“Inspector, I just want to get out of this bed and return to my shop as soon as possible.” As Natan spoke the words, Dr. Allan, the attending physician, entered the room and addressed the group.

“Monsieur Phillippe is not leaving that bed for at least a week.” Turning to the patient he said, “if you get up too soon your lung may collapse again and that could be fatal.” 

“But how shall I run the shop? I have customers who depend on me,” Natan’s voice was urgent.

“Surely, Natan, leaving the shop shut for a week won’t be the end,” Phryne remarked.

“You don’t understand Phryne. That shop is everything to me.” 

Phryne looked at her friend sympathetically. 

“I have an idea. Dot and I will run the shop. I was looking for something to do, anyway, and maybe it will help us find some clues.”

“No, Phryne, I can’t ask you to do that.” Natan Phillippe looked worried.

“Nonsense, you aren’t asking, I’m offering. What do you think, Jack?”

“I think it might be a good idea but you need to be careful, Miss Fisher. This assault was serious and if the assailant comes back I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Pish tosh, Inspector, you know me well enough to know that won’t scare me away.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Fisher, I do.”

“How exciting. I always wanted to be a librarian.”

“Did you, Miss Fisher? I can’t imagine you quiet and harmless.”

“What’s harmless about librarians, Jack? They are custodians for some of the most dangerous things in the world. Ideas.”

“Quite so, Miss Fisher, I stand corrected. But please do be careful.”

“I always am Inspector,” Phryne said and she left the hospital room with a flourish. Jack rolled his eyes at her back. 

“Come along, Jack,” she called behind her, “I will drop you at the station.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Phryne arrived back at the Librarie d’esprit, she found Dot and Hugh Collins enjoying a cup of tea amid the disarray. 

“Miss,” Dot jumped up, “we were just taking a break.” Hugh had also jumped up and in doing so spilled tea down the front of his police tunic. 

“Steady on, folks, taking breaks is acceptable even for policemen,” she replied, ignoring their obvious flustered state. 

“However, Dot, you and I have work to do. We are going to run the shop for Natan until he is back on his feet. Have you ever done retail before?”

“No, Miss Fisher. My mother thought it was not work for good girls.”

“Hah. Your mother had funny ideas about what good work is. What could be more uplifting than spending the day amidst the greatest minds and ideas of the world?” Phryne said more rhetorically than inquisitively as she waved her arms at the books on the shelves. 

She continued, “despite my chequered past, I have not worked in retail except for selling oranges in the market as a girl, so we will have to teach each other.”

Hugh said, “actually, I worked in the hardware store near my house before I started with the police. I can give you some pointers.”

“Excellent, Hugh, where do we start?”

“The main thing is to make sure that you keep track of the inventory of what you have on hand, what you have sold and how much money you have taken in. Mr. Phillippe must have an inventory of some kind of a receipt book where he keeps track of the books he buys and the ones he sells. Plus, there must be some kind of ledger of revenues and expenses. Let’s start by righting this desk.”

The three of them put the desk to rights and Phryne found the inventory and the ledger books in one of the drawers. 

“One more thing,” Hugh noted, “you will need a cash float so you can make change for anyone who wants to buy a book.” 

“Of course. I guess I will have to front that until Natan gets out of hospital. How much do you think we need?”

“We usually had £10 in small change.” 

“Some of these books are expensive,” Phryne replied. “I think I will arrange at the bank for £50. Meanwhile, Dot, you carry on tidying up and I will be back in a trice.”

Dot and Hugh went back to picking up the books that had been pulled off the shelves and organizing them as best they could. Although Natan Phillippe used the Dewey Decimal System, he didn’t label the spines that way and so only a seasoned user would be able to sort the books without having the system close to hand. 

When Phryne returned, she doffed her hat, coat and gloves and picked up where Dot and Hugh had left off. She was more versed in the cataloguing system and was able to start placing the books on the shelves where they belonged. She noticed as she did so that they were mainly older French history books with beautiful colour plates. She wondered if that was a clue. Was the person who assaulted Natan after some book in particular? 

After about three hours, the shop had been restored to a sufficient level of order that Phryne felt they could turn the closed sign around and open the front door. The neighbouring shop keepers had seen the police and the ambulance earlier that day and Phryne and Dot had a steady stream of well-wishers coming in and out for most of the afternoon. 

Later that evening when Jack dropped by Wardlow for their customary night cap when they worked on cases together, she didn’t have much to share with him except that after one day on the job she was still enjoying life as a merchant.

“I was able to talk to all manner of people. It was fun.”

“I am sure it was, Miss Fisher. But did you learn anything that might help the case?”

“Life isn’t all about crime, Inspector.”

“No, Miss Fisher, thankfully not,” he replied and smiled at her.

“But I did learn a few things. Natan has a habit of working late and everyone in the market knows that. The next shop over is a men’s furnishings shop and the owner, Mr. Wright, saw a delivery of a large and heavy box yesterday afternoon. That must be the book shipment. I haven’t found the box but I will keep looking. Perhaps there is something about the sender that is relevant. I also heard from Mrs. Keller, the hat maker, that she saw a large man in a dark coat and hat ‘lurking’, her words, when she left at around 7 pm. She said she was rather nervous and asked Mr. Wright to walk her to the tram stop. I wonder if any of the constables on that beat may have seen something similar.”

“I will ask,” Jack replied. “I learned that Natan Phillippe emigrated from Marseilles in 1916 and set up shop as a bookseller in the first year he was in Australia.”

“You are looking into Natan’s background, Jack? He was the victim.”

“Yes, he was, Miss Fisher, but his background may be relevant. Perhaps this is a hangover from France.”

“Surely not, Jack, that was 12 years ago.”

“I believe we just dealt with certain artists who were here because of crimes in France during the war.”

Phryne nodded her acceptance of Jack’s touché. “I suppose you have a point, but I don’t think of Natan as capable of being a criminal.” She paused. “You said he emigrated from Marseilles. Does that mean his port of departure or where he was living?”

“Where he was living. I believe he also had a bookshop there.”

“Funny. He always told me his shop was in Paris.”

“You see, Miss Fisher, things may not be quite what they seem on the surface.” 

“Like you, Inspector.” Phryne gave Jack one of her thorough once-overs. 

“Time I left, Miss Fisher.” Jack could give as good as he got in the once-over department, but he was not going to be seduced by Phryne Fisher until he was damn good and ready. 

“Of course, Inspector, early to bed and all that.” She brandished the decanter in case he relented, but he walked out of the parlour and picked up his hat and coat. 

“Until tomorrow, Miss Fisher?”

“Dot and I will be at the shop. Come and see us.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dot opened the shop at 9 o’clock, the time advertised on the door and Phryne breezed in at 11 am. “Nine o’clock is really rather uncivilized. I mean who purchases a book at 9 am.”

“Actually Miss, our first customer was a girl from the pickle factory looking for a copy of an essay called A Room of One’s Own. By someone called Wolf? I couldn’t find a copy but I said we would see if we could track it down.”

“Virginia Woolf,” Phryne mused. “You would appreciate it, Dot. Remember how you cried about having your own room in my house.”

“Yes, I did, Miss Phryne and sometimes I still do.”

“Virginia Woolf writes about the freedom of having a room of one’s own and £500 a year. You would do well to become familiar with her work, Dot, especially now you are stepping out with Hugh. I expect he tends towards the more traditional and you may have to set him straight.” 

“Yes, Miss,” Dot replied sounding obedient but looking a bit more rebellious.

As they talked, two young women came in and asked for Monsieur Phillippe. 

“I am afraid he isn’t here. Can we help you?” Phryne asked.

The women were both reasonably well dressed if slightly shabby and somewhat thin. The taller one with the dark hair introduced them. “I’m Lindy Bell and this is Samantha Levine. We sell books here.” 

“Well if you want to put them on the desk we can see about evaluating them. I’m Phryne Fisher and this is my companion Dorothy Williams. We are running the shop for Natan while he is indisposed.”

“I hope he is okay,” said the shorter blonde woman who Phryne deduced must be Samantha. 

“He will be. He ran into a spot of bother yesterday and has some injuries.”

“Injuries! “What kind of injuries?” the young women both looked worried.

Phryne didn’t see the need to keep the injuries secret since every shopkeeper around knew about them. 

“The shop seems to have been robbed and he was beaten up by the robber.”

“Oh my goodness,” Lindy Bell’s hand flew to her mouth. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, he should make a full recovery. Do you know anyone who might want to hurt him?”

The two women looked at each other and Samantha Levine bit her lip.

“Spill,” Phryne ordered them. “If you know anything that could help we need to know. The beating was very bad. This person is playing for keeps.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a burglary. Or at least not on purpose.”

“Go on,” Phryne encouraged.

“Lawrence Mitchell is our publisher,” Lindy started.

“Your publisher?” Phryne asked.

“Yes, when I said we sell books, I didn’t mean second hand. Samantha and I are authors. Natan sells our books in his shop.”

“I see. So Mitchell is your publisher?”

“Right. He takes about 70% of the earnings which doesn’t leave us much to live on. If we don’t agree he says he will trade … well … certain favours in exchange.” Phryne’s lips thinned and she stood to attention with her feet apart and her hands on her hips. The thought of someone extracting sexual favours from artists brought back unpleasant memories of Rene. 

“That’s despicable. I assume that Natan didn’t like that?”

“No.” The two women looked at each other again. Lindy continued, “he had spoken to Mr. Mitchell and they had an angry row.”

“When was this?”

“A few months ago.”

“Why would Mitchell come back now to beat him up?”

Samantha spoke, “we don’t know but he’s the only one we can think of who Natan didn’t get along with.”

“We should go,” Lindy spoke to Samantha.

“Before you do, show me your books,” Phryne requested.

The two women walked over to the historical fiction. “I write romantic stories about Australian history,” Lindy pointed to the shelf were there were 5 copies of a book called I Married the Outback. 

Samantha pointed in the direction of the actual history section. “And I write books on history which Lindy uses as the research for her stories.” She indicted two large copies of a folio entitled The History of Interior Australia. 

“I shall have to read them. I always want to make sure that women authors get their due. Perhaps I will also have a word with Mr. Mitchell.”

“We’d be grateful, Miss, if you could. It is pretty hard to support yourself in this work.” The two women left.

After they were gone, Phryne turned to Dot and asked, “did you get the sense that they weren’t telling us everything?” Dot nodded her agreement. 

“I am going to dig into that book inventory and you take the financial ledger. Let’s see if there are any devils in the details.”

Dot and Phryne poured over their work for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, interrupted only by cups of tea and Mr. Butler arriving with sandwiches with Jack close behind.

“Were you keeping a stakeout in case Mr. Butler arrived bearing food?” Phryne asked him as he came in the door.

“No, just luck, Miss Fisher.”

“Well, sit down and join us, there is plenty.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Jack removed his hat and coat and tucked into a fresh, thick sandwich. 

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Nothing so far except a couple of young female authors who are being bullied by their publisher. I plan to look more closely at Lawrence Mitchell but I can’t see why he would beat up Natan. You?”

“Not much. We took a closer look at Natan’s clothes. It actually looks like there might have been two assailants based on the foot prints on his jacket.”

“Two assailants? Natan only mentioned one.”

“It’s possible he didn’t see the second one or that he was unconscious when the second assailant arrived. Based on the boot prints, one may have been a woman.”

“A woman? In a vicious beating. Isn’t that unusual?” she asked.

“We don’t see it often, but we do see it sometimes. Women can be downright dangerous when they want to be,” Jack looked at Phryne with a wry smile and a tilt of his head.

“And we have damn good reason sometimes,” she replied tersely, thinking of Lawrence Mitchell. 

“No doubt.”

“Dot, what about you?”

“Well, there is something a bit funny about the financial ledger. It shows regular payments to Lawrence Mitchell, the publisher, which I guess must be the money that Natan pays after he sells copies of the books. But there are also payments to LB and SL that coincide with those payments and are about 40% of the amounts paid to Mr. Mitchell.”

“Good spotting, Dot. LB and SL could be Lindy Bell and Samantha Levine,” Phryne said. “So maybe Natan was paying them something extra so that they could get by. Didn’t they say that Mitchell takes 70% of book sales. So Natan may have been shorting Mitchell or paying the women out of his own pocket. Dot, can you do the math?”

“Sure, Miss Fisher. I’ll find out what Mr. Phillippe paid for the books and what he sold them for and see where the extra comes from.”

“If Natan is shorting Mitchell, that could be motive, don’t you think, Jack?” Phryne asked.

“Yes, though a vicious beating seems a bit extreme for what would amount to only a small amount of money.”

“Perhaps he was shorting Mitchell on other books. We will need to talk to Lawrence Mitchell.”

“Before we do, I want to spend more time looking around here. That’s why I came back. Do you want to join me?” Jack stood and held a hand out to help Phryne up. She took it, looking into his eyes with a look that clearly said, ‘of course, Inspector.’

“Wait, Miss.” 

“Yes, Dot.” 

“I found one other thing.” Dot held out a note that was made by taping letters cut from magazines. It read “We have found you. We know what you did. You can’t hidé any longer.” 

Jack took the paper by the edge and put it into an envelope. “Any sign of who sent it?” 

“No Inspector. It was tucked into the ledger but there was no envelope.”

“Thank you, Miss Williams. We will see if there is anything to be gleaned from it, though I expect not. These letters could have come from anywhere. But it might explain Natan’s reluctance to talk to us. He is obviously hiding something.”

“Or someone wants us to think that,” Phryne said, still trying to defend her friend’s honour. “There is no such word as hidé in English,” Phryne said. “I bet the letters were cut out of French magazines. That’s a clue. Someone who reads French is involved somewhere.”

Jack and Phryne started a thorough search of the bookstore. It had several ‘rooms’ created by the bookshelves. Each of the ‘rooms’ or alcoves held a different subject according to the cataloguing system. There was nothing obvious in the organization of the books to suggest any motive for the beating. But as Phryne walked along she got the feeling that she was in a maze that made no sense. 

“Jack, doesn’t it feel like the store is smaller than it should be?”

“I have the same feeling, but I haven’t been able to find where the anomaly is. Let’s try walking around the outside of the building.”

Since the store front was in the middle of a row of shops, they had to walk all the way down the block and around the back lane to see the rear of it. Looking up, Phryne saw a window that appeared to be at a level in between the first and second stories. 

“Look, Jack,” she pointed. “Some kind of middle floor that isn’t apparent from the front of the building. Natan lives on the second floor, but what happens in the middle?”

“Good spotting Miss Fisher. Perhaps you get to that level from the back? There is a door here. I will see if there are keys in the store.”

Phryne tilted her head at Inspector Robinson, reached into her bodice and pulled out her lock pick. 

“Phryne,” Jack admonished.

“Oh come on, Jack. I’m not breaking and entering. I am running the shop at Natan’s request and you are investigating a crime in this location. We have every right to get in and I am simply taking the more efficient route. 

Jack waved an arm to indicate that he was willing to let her proceed. 

The rear door lead onto a steep, narrow staircase and they could smell frying onions. 

“I didn’t smell cooking in the shop. This part of the building must have different ventilation,” Phryne observed.

They climbed up the stairs to a doorway that should have aligned with the window they saw in the lane and listened outside. They could hear two women’s voices. 

Lindy Bell answered the door after the first knock. When she saw Phryne and the Inspector she quickly said, “Natan lets us stay here. The money we get from Lawrence Mitchell isn’t enough to live on.” 

“Don’t worry, Miss Bell, I won’t evict you. This is Detective Inspector Robinson. He is looking into what happened with Monsieur Phillippe.” Jack held out his warrant card for the women to see. 

“So Natan pays you more than Mitchell allows and lets you stay here?”

“Yes, he says that he wants to make sure that women writers can finally move out of the era of Jane Austen.”

“A Room of One’s Own,” Phryne said, nodding to herself. 

Jack looked quizzical.

“Dot was asked about a copy of A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf this morning. I told her it was about empowering independent women. It seems Natan took that sentiment to heart. We won’t bother you anymore, but there are some sandwiches and cakes in the bookshop and I invite you to take what you need if you are hungry.”

“Thank you, Miss Fisher,” Samantha Levine replied with genuine gratitude. 

As she and Jack descended the stairs back to the lane, Jack said, “we need to search Natan’s apartments, too, but I am keen to talk to this Mitchell.”

“I am coming with you, Jack. I am keen to speak to him, too,” Phryne replied, spitting out her consonants indicating mounting displeasure with what she had learned so far about the publisher.


	5. Chapter 5

Lawrence Mitchell had his office in one of Melbourne’s newest high-rise buildings. He was the sort of man who liked to show off his wealth and influence as one of the city’s leading cultural influencers. He was a large man who enjoyed wearing well-made but ostentatious suits and jewelry. When he stood up from behind his desk to shake DI Robinson’s hand he dwarfed him. Jack did not fail to notice that as his hand was being painfully squeezed, Mitchell was looking interestedly over his shoulder at Miss Fisher. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the rozzers and one of their very, very attractive new special constables.”

Jack resisted the temptation to call “eyes front” as he would have in his days as a Lance Corporal. 

“Miss Fisher is a private detective and she is assisting the police in our investigation of the beating of Mr. Natan Phillippe, one of your colleagues in the book trade.”

“Someone beat up Natan Phillippe?” Mitchell looked genuinely surprised. “That’s a bit like beating up Father Christmas. Everyone loved Natan.”

“We understand that you and Natan had had some strong words recently,” Phryne noted.

“Strong words?” Mitchell looked puzzled, then laughed. “That’s business. I’m a friend of Natan’s and have been since he moved here in ’16. But that doesn’t mean I am not going to take issue with him shorting me on book payments.”

“What do you mean, ‘shorting you’?” Jack asked.

“The arrangement I have is that I publish the books, Natan or other booksellers sell them and pay me a percentage of the total profits. Natan wasn’t paying me enough for the number of books that he received from me. He claimed that he had to sell them at a discount to get them out the door. But I don’t believe him. I only publish quality writers. None of the other booksellers had a problem selling them for full price.”

“Was it all the books you were selling through Natan or only some?” Phryne asked, thinking about Lindy Bell and Samantha Levine.

“Not all, but several. I recently found out that he was selling them for full price and giving some of the money to the authors. That is a clear violation of my arrangements with the authors. So I am going to be having a chat with some of them about giving me my money back.”

“Or something else in exchange, I understand.” Phryne gave Mitchell her coldest stare. “Mr. Mitchell, you pride yourself on your reputation as a cultural leader in Melbourne. Yet you try and starve your authors to death. How is keeping writers poor creating a creative powerhouse out of this town?” Phryne barely concealed her contempt for the idea that Mitchell would be coming after the two women she had just met. 

“It is a business, Miss Fisher. If they are good, they will sell more than enough books to get rich.”

“But you will get richer, isn’t that right, Mr. Mitchell?” Jack was also starting to feel some contempt.

“It’s a business, Inspector. There are always red raggers who think art should be free, but it ain’t. I make sure that those writers get their books into the hands of the public and I take my cut. I am not going to apologize for that.”

“I am hardly a red ragger, Mr. Mitchell, nor is the Inspector. But we both agree that keeping the cultural class in poverty is not a way to make great art. C’mon Jack, I have had enough of this for now.” Phryne stood up and turned on her heel. Jack paused and said to Mitchell, “I will probably need to speak to you further and I will be sending my Constable over to get copies of all your records of financial transactions with Monsieur Phillippe.”

Jack and Phryne didn’t speak until they got back to the police car that Jack had driven them in over to Mitchell’s office. Phryne’s lips were thin and white under her red lipstick. 

“He really got under your skin,” Jack observed, looking at her in the passenger seat. “You look like I do when you’re driving.”

“Hmph.” She paused. “Yes, I suppose he did. When my friends and I were playing at being artists models we thought it was déclassé to have money. But now that I am older and looking at those two thin young women and imagining how they can create art while starving, I realize that the poverty of artists is a myth made up by people like him so they can get and stay rich. Even if Mitchell is not our culprit, I plan to ensure that he gets some comeuppance.”

“Within the confines of the law, Miss Fisher?” Jack said sternly.

“Of course, Inspector, as ever,” Phryne replied, her flirting tone letting him know that she was not interested in his opinion on her methods.

“Shall I take you home or back to the bookshop?”

“The bookshop, Jack. We still need to examine Natan’s rooms.”

Jack drove them back to the eastern market and they discussed what they knew so far. 

“It seems like Mitchell is the best candidate, but despite him being despicable, I believe him about not beating up Natan,” Phryne offered.

“I agree with you, Miss Fisher. I also believed him but the boot prints from the clothing and the crime scene are not nearly large enough to belong to him.”

“He was rather impressive,” Phryne acknowledged slightly flirtatiously. 

“You tend towards the giants?” Jack asked sardonically.

“I tend towards the interesting and attractive, Jack. You should have picked that up about me by now. But Lawrence Mitchell is nowhere on my list. Despite his physical charms, he is odious. What do you tend towards?” Her question and her tone were deliberately provocative. 

“Towards getting my job done, Miss Fisher.”

“Jack, my dear, you are not going to get away with that.”

“It will have to do for now. We have arrived.” Jack turned off the engine and came around to open Phryne’s door. 

“Perhaps later, in a more intimate setting?” She wasn’t letting him off the hook. 

“Perhaps.” Jack was beginning to sweat a bit under Phryne’s microscope and was eager to change the subject.


	6. Chapter 6

Natan Phillippe was frugal enough to live above his bookshop, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t extravagant in his furnishings. The apartment that they entered at the top of the stairs that ascended from behind the front desk was lushly appointed with ruby silk wallpaper, Persian carpets and a large, well-made, comfortable chesterfield and chaise set. The wood work was dark but well maintained and the walls were covered in art work, many pieces of which Phryne recognized from avant garde French artists. 

“This is lovely,” Phryne remarked. She looked over at Jack who was wincing. “You don’t approve?”

“It is not for me to approve or disapprove but it is a bit over the top. I would find it hard to relax in a suite of rooms like this.” He gestured through the door into Natan’s bedroom which was also lushly furnished with a large sleigh bed with painted silk bed curtains. 

“Perhaps that was the point,” Phryne observed. “I don’t know anything about Natan’s proclivities, but he appears to have a taste for the finer and more elaborate things.” 

The evening was just starting to fall as they had arrived at the apartment and Phryne turned on the chandelier which made the room seem even more ostentatious. 

“I will start with the bedroom, Jack, if you are uncomfortable. You start in here.” The Inspector looked relieved. 

Jack began his search with the secretary in the main room. It had a number of papers stacked neatly in piles. Most of them turned out to be contracts to buy and sell books. “Clearly I am in the wrong business,” he said to himself as he saw the amounts of money people were willing to pay for rare items. 

He moved on from the desk to the bookshelves. There were a large number of French books and he cursed his weak French. There was also a shelf of German books, most of which pre-dated the war. Nothing leapt out at him as relevant. He saw a copy of Remarque’s’ All Quiet on the Western Front and took it off the shelf. Jack was familiar with the newly translated work and he muttered one of the lines to himself as he flipped through the pages. "We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing from ourselves, from our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces." He had heard that there might be a film made of the book but he had no interest in seeing that landscape again. He noticed that the book seemed to have documents tucked inside it. There were some letters in a language he didn’t completely recognize. It seemed both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. 

He smelled her before he heard Phryne over his shoulder. “Amazing that a German author has been so able to capture the sentiment of that war,” she said recognizing where the lines came from. Jack turned to face her and nodded quietly. They both stood still reflecting on their different experiences of the war. 

Phryne looked at letters in Jack’s hand. “That language looks both familiar and unfamiliar”, she said, voicing his own thoughts on the matter. “I think it might be Flemish.”

“Was Phillippe, Flemish?”

“I don’t think so,” Phryne replied. “But we never spoke about it. Remember I told you I always thought he was from Paris not Marseille.”

“Perhaps he was from neither. Would you recognize a Flemish accent?” Jack asked her.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember running across many Belgian’s during the war. Did you?”

“Only the bastards who thought they could use the war to secede. We heard stories about Flemish collaborators giving away secrets.”

They both paused and looked at each other seriously. 

“No, Jack, I don’t think so. I refuse to think that Natan was a collaborator.”

“We have to be open to all possibilities, Phryne. It is what makes us good detectives.”

“Okay, I will be open to it, but I don’t want it to be true, Jack.”

“I know. Natan is your friend. We will tread carefully.”

“What did you find?” Jack asked nodding towards the bedroom.

“Natan’s ‘private collection’” she replied salaciously. 

“Private collection?”

“Books that he wouldn’t want the police to know that he had or that he sold. If you take my meaning.”

Jack looked uncomfortable again. “I take your meaning.”

“I think we may need to examine them a bit more closely in order to see if they produce any evidence. And I see a convenient decanter of absinthe on the mantle that we can use to facilitate our research.”

“Miss Fisher, I don’t condone drinking on the job.” His speech did not reflect his thinking. If Phryne was describing what he thought she was describing, he might need a bit of French courage.

“Jack, we are well off the clock now, it is nearly 8:30 pm. We can have our customary nightcap here and review the ‘evidence’ in more detail.”

“Miss Fisher ….” Jack was struggling for a reason to say no besides the obvious.

“I won’t take no for an answer. Don’t worry, Inspector, I don’t bite and I don’t intend to take advantage of you tonight.” Jack felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. He had every intention of letting her take advantage of him someday, he was just having trouble choosing the right day. 

“So what are we looking at?” he asked as he led the way into the bedroom.

Phryne followed with the decanter and two glasses which she set on the bedside table before reclining on the pillows and pointing to a bookshelf with glass doors.

“Mostly the usual. Fanny Hill, Samuel Pepys, Casanova. Some interesting Japanese volumes that I may have to borrow.”

Jack rubbed his eyebrows before opening the bookshelf and taking out one of the elaborately illustrated volumes. He was determined not to react as he had when she had unwrapped the painting of herself as a nude. He flipped the pages looking more clinical than he felt. 

“There is a letter in here.” He pulled out a few pages of yellowed paper and handed them to Phryne. “It is in French, you will have to translate.”

She read it over slowly and then started reading out loud. 

My dearest Phillippe. It feels so long since I have held you in my arms even though it has only been a few days. I long to be able to be with you every day. 

I know that my father still resists the idea that you might marry me. He believes that you are only my family’s money. But we know that this is a lie. I would be with you in dire poverty. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. 

This war makes everything so much more poignant. We could be killed any moment. I don’t want to die without you Phillippe. Please take me away. We can go anywhere, I don’t care where. 

I love you,

Francoise.

“Is there an envelope or anything to indicate where it came from?” Phryne asked.

“No. But there are more papers.” He shuffled through the other documents. “Here, a page from a French newspaper.” He handed it to Phryne.

“From Roubaix. That’s on the border with Flanders. I wonder what the importance of it is.” She scanned down the page. “Here, I found it.” She laid it out on the bed and Jack leaned over to see what she was pointing at. 

“Germans bombed a town in Flanders near Roubaix and a family was killed. They were named Letourneau. One daughter, Francoise, survived because she wasn’t home at the time.”

“So someone named Phillippe and Francoise were lovers during the war. Do you suppose Phillippe is really ‘Natan Phillippe’?” Jack said. 

“I wonder what happened to her. Do you think this could have something to do with the crime?”

“Anything is possible, Miss Fisher. We still have to look at every angle.”

“This is an interesting angle,” she said, looking up at him. Reviewing the newspaper article had placed his face near hers as she reclined on the luxurious bedding. They paused and looked at each other for a long moment before Jack cleared his throat and said, “it’s time I was getting home. One more absinthe and I won’t be able to drive. Shall I give you a lift?”

“Thank you, Inspector. I promise no funny business.” Jack rolled his eyes and offered his hand to help her up off the bed. He found himself pulled forward until he tumbled onto the mattress but Phryne had employed some sort of judo move to get out from under him and end up on top of him. 

“Inspector, are you alright,” she said, feigning concern as she peered into his face below hers on the bed. 

“Not funny, Miss Fisher,” he said after a long pause.

“You’re right, Inspector. I am sure I don’t know what got into me.”

“Absinthe, I think. Time to go.” 

Phryne reluctantly stood up and offered a hand to Jack to help him off the bed. She started to straighten his tie and his hands lingered on hers as he willed himself to remove them. “Come along Miss Fisher, I will drive you home.”

He noticed that she sat altogether too close to him on the drive back to Wardlow. He couldn’t be entirely sure if it was the absinthe or not but he didn’t protest.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sir,”

“Yes, Collins,” Jack was at the office but feeling a bit bleary. He didn’t think he had been drunk the night before but absinthe could be cruel as it left the system. 

“Do you think it could be a new stand over scheme down in the eastern market that was the reason for the beating?”

“It has occurred to me. We only cleaned up the last one a few months ago. Do you have any new evidence to suggest that?”

“Well, Sir, Dottie, I mean Miss Williams, said that the neighbouring shopkeepers were pretty nervous about the police being around.”

“They might still be nervous after the last one. The Smith gang could get quite violent with grassers.”

“True, Sir.”

“Ask around some of the other stations to see if they have been hearing anything along those lines.” He turned back to his paper work and then looked up and said, “good initiative Collins.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I think I will go back over to the bookshop and see if I can find out anything more.”

“Certainly, Sir.” Hugh kept a straight face but he was noticing how Inspector Robinson found more and more reasons to be where Miss Fisher was. It was a matter of some gossip amongst the constabulary. Mostly because they had all thought that their DI was far too formal and wooden to be romantic. Besides, the Inspector was recently divorced and most of the force knew that the marriage to Deputy Commissioner’s Sanderson’s daughter had been on the rocks. 

“Hallo, Jack”. Phryne was always enthusiastic in her greetings. “Dot has some more information for us.”

“I have been going through the books, Inspector.”

“Excellent, Miss Williams. What have you found?”

“First on the publisher problem. Mr. Phillippe would always pay Mr. Mitchell for one or two fewer books than he took to sell. Miss Phryne has already confirmed that Mr. Mitchell had figured that out. I also found the payments to Miss Bell and Miss Levine. Their books did sell well, but they got such a small amount that it was hard to live on. Mr. Phillippe would give them the equivalent of the books that he claimed he didn’t sell.”

“That gives us some motive for Mitchell but not much.”

“I also found some payments to cash that have a notation beside them, ‘FL’. There are also receipts for several French letters of credit.” 

“Payments to Francoise Letourneau?” Phryne proposed.

“Maybe,” Jack replied. “But why?”

“Maybe they had a child together and he left her behind in France?” Phryne speculated.

“That’s awful, Miss. I hope that’s not it.”

“It wouldn’t be the first, Dot, nor will it be the last. Maybe he planned to send for her and then it didn’t work out.”

“How does it help solve our crime?” Jack asked. 

“I don’t know,” Phryne admitted. “But it is something else we didn’t know about Natan. And maybe it confirms that Natan is an alias for the Phillippe in the letters we found the other night.”

Dot gave the two detectives an inquisitive look which Phryne responded to with only a raised eyebrow.

As they were speaking, a young mother came in with a small girl in tow. 

“How can I help you,” Phryne asked, doing her best shopkeeper.

“My daughter and I are looking for Alice in Wonderland,” she replied and the little girl nodded vigorously. “My Nan is going to read it to me. It’s got a cat.”

“Indeed it does,” said Jack, looking kindly at the girl. “And a rabbit and several other magical characters.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that Charles Dodgson was up your alley, Jack,” Phryne said using Lewis Carroll’s real name.

“I have suggested before, Miss Fisher, that you shouldn’t think you have me pegged too soon.”

“Consider me admonished. Come along, I think we can find something suitable over here.” Phryne took the mother and daughter over to the children’s section. 

As he watched them walk away and thought about what she had said about Charles Dodgson. Natan Phillippe was starting to seem more and more like alias. But how would he find out? 

“Miss Williams,” Jack turned to Dot. “Have you found anything in the records that suggests that Mr. Phillippe goes by a different name?” 

“No, Inspector, but I haven’t been looking for that. Do you want me to?”

“Yes. In fact, look for a Flemish name or some connection to Flanders or a town called Roubaix.”

“Yes, Inspector, I will.”

Phryne brought the little family back to the front. “I’m sorry, I will have to let Miss Williams help you now. I am new to shop keeping and I am not quite sure what to do with a sale.”

As Dot helped the mother pay for the book, Jack told Phryne about his insight. 

“So Natan is not French but Flemish? How does that help us?”

“I don’t know yet, but I think it’s time to ask Mr. Phillippe about Francoise Letourneau. I am also going to have Collins do some checking to see what we can find out about her. Miss Williams, do you have anything that indicates where those French letters of credit were going?”

“Yes, Inspector. The postal address was in Marseilles.”

“Very good. That’s where Collins can start inquiries.” Jack placed a call to the station.

When he was finished, he turned back to Dot and said “Constable Collins suggested that the neighbours were somewhat nervous about having the police hanging around. Did they say anything more?”

“Not specifically, Inspector.”

“Phryne, I am going back to the station to help Collins. I expect his French is worse than mine. Perhaps you could play the naïve new business owner and see if they will talk to you.”

“Naïve, Inspector, my best look.” Phryne cocked her elbows on her hips and tilted her head innocently. Jack rolled his eyes. He did that a lot around Miss Fisher and she seemed to enjoy provoking it. 

Once he had gone, Phryne started her rounds of the nearby shops armed with a basket of Mr. Butler’s biscuits. 

The shop across the street was a tailor and she thought she would start with them and possibly purchase a tie for Jack to apologize for her antics the previous night. She enjoyed keeping him off guard but that might have gone a bit far. She hated men thinking they could use physical force on her and she shouldn’t have done it to him. 

“Mr. Svoboda?” The tailor looked up from his pinning and gave Phryne a long assessing gaze. “How can I help you? I don’t do women’s clothing but when I see someone as beautiful as you, I think perhaps I should start.”

“You flatter me Mr. Svoboda.”

“Josef, please.”

“Phryne Fisher. I have taken over Librarie d’esprit while Natan Phillippe is recovering. I am a little nervous, if I tell the truth. I am hoping you might be able to ease my fears.”

“I will help if I can. Perhaps we can start with tea to go with those biscuits. I will ask my wife.”

“Do you think that it was some kind of stand over scheme that got Natan into trouble? I don’t want to wind up like he did.” Phryne could give a good impression of a damsel in distress if it helped her. 

“The police cleaned out the Smith gang but there is always someone to take their place.”

“Who?”

“They haven’t come to me yet, but I have heard that a lot of questions are being asked by some men who speak French.”

“A French gang? I hadn’t heard of that but I suppose I wouldn’t know. Do you know any names or people I should look out for?”

“We don’t want any trouble.” Phryne could hear the caution in Josef Svoboda’s wife’s voice. Mr. Svoboda gestured towards the woman who was speaking. “This is my wife, Elena.”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Svoboda. I don’t want to cause trouble. Just to stay out of it.”

“There was a man asking around for Natan last week. He said he owed him money. That’s how it started with the Smith gang. Fake claims that we owed money and that we would be turned in to immigration.”

“Surely if you came to Australia legally they couldn’t turn you in.”

“Miss Fisher, you can’t understand unless you came from the east after the war. We never want to go back there. I will do anything to avoid trouble with immigration.” There was no doubt about Josef Svoboda’s anxiety. 

“Well, threatening me with immigration won’t work. I was born here. But I don’t want my neighbours to be nervous. If I can help, I will.”

“We don’t need help, Miss Fisher, we need you to not get involved. That is the best way.” Elena Svoboda was holding the door open for Phryne who handed her the unfinished cup of tea. “I’m sorry to have upset you,” she said as she left the shop.

Phryne’s reception at the other shops was similar. There seemed to be a consistent story that a large French man had been asking about Natan and people were concerned that the stand over scheme was starting again. 

When Phryne stopped at City South on the way home, she found Jack going over daily reports. 

“Ah, Miss Fisher, a site for bored eyes. Any news on our crime?”

“Inspector, I hope I do more than ease your boredom,” she pouted as she jumped up to sit on his desk. 

He looked up at her and frowned which made her laugh.

“I have a present for you.” She slid off the desk and around to the chair on the other side.

Jack felt momentarily bereft at her departure from his side of the desk. 

She handed over a package wrapped in brown paper. She had returned to the Svoboda’s tailor shop after doing the rounds and found Josef on his own. He helped her to select a lovely silk tie in the dark green that she often wore herself and that she thought might liven up Jack’s dark grey suits. 

“I owe you an apology.”

“An apology, Miss Fisher? I don’t think so.”

“Yes, Jack. My antics last night were inexcusable.” Jack’s first reaction was to think that this was another way of flirting with him though she did seem sincere. 

“I have very strong feelings about men who think that they can manhandle me without asking. Yet even after you made it clear that you weren’t going to let me seduce you, I still pulled you down onto your face on the bed. If a man did that to me, they might not escape unscathed. Certainly not without strong words.”

“I didn’t mind, Phryne.”

“Be that as it may, I should not have done it and I apologize. That doesn’t mean that I might not want to ‘womanhandle’ you in future, but only if you consent.”

“Ah,” Jack was speechless at the thought of Phryne ‘womanhandling’ him. 

“So here,” she pushed the package towards him, “open it.”

Jack unwrapped the package hoping it wasn’t similar to the last brown paper package he opened in her presence and he was pleasantly surprised to find the tie. 

“It’s lovely, Phryne. Thank you.”

“Come here,” she stood up beside his desk and gestured for him to stand.

Jack stood up and leaned back on the desk while he let her undo his blue striped tie and replace it with the more boldly coloured one. He didn’t fail to notice how slowly she undertook her task and how lovely she smelled standing so close to him. Before she could finish, the door opened and Constable Collins burst in before stopping awkwardly.

Jack stood up and straightened the new tie. “Yes, Collins.” He tried not to sound impatient. 

“I’m sorry Sir, I mean, Miss Fisher.”

“Carry on Hugh, what were you rushing in for?”

“I think I may have found the Francoise Letourneau that you are looking for. A woman named Francoise Letourneau was born in Roubaix in 1901 and immigrated to Australia in 1927 from Marseilles.”

“Do we know where she is living?”

“Melbourne, Sir. In St. Kilda.”

“Tomorrow, I think we should find Mademoiselle Letourneau and interview her.”

“That reminds me, Jack. When I asked the other shopkeepers about a stand over scheme, they mentioned that a large French man had been asking around about Natan. Its puzzling though. If they were looking for him, he was easy to find. His name is right on the sign for Librarie d’esprit.”

“Maybe they were more interested in his movements than in him?” Jack wondered. 

“Do you think he could be in danger at the hospital?”

“Nothing has happened in two nights. But you are right. Collins, can you arrange for a constable to be with Mr. Phillippe 24 hours a day from now until we solve this case?”

“Of course, sir.” He started to leave. “Do you want me to close the door, sir?”

“No, Collins, there is nothing going on in here that can’t go on with the door open. Miss Fisher simply gave me a new tie.”

“It’s very nice, Sir,” Collins said awkwardly and quickly dashed out knocking over the telephone as he went. 

Jack shook his head. “Collins will make an excellent officer when he finally stops being so nervous about everything.” 

Phryne smiled and took her leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flamenpolitik was a real secessionist newspaper during the war, but I don't know if it actually was used for signalling intelligence to the German army.


	8. Chapter 8

When Phryne arrived home to Wardlow, Dot was pouring over some yellowed newspapers. 

“What have you found?” she asked as she accepted a cocktail from Mr. Butler. 

“Dinner in an hour, Miss,” he said.

“Thank you Mr. B. I am famished. This shop keeping work is tiring.” She turned back to the newspapers as Mr. Butler closed the parlour door behind him.

“Dot, fill me in.”

“Well, Miss, I found these clippings in another ledger. They are from a newspaper called ‘Flaming politics’.”

Phryne jumped up and looked over Dot’s shoulder. “Not flaming politics. Flamenpolitik. It was the newspaper of the Flemish secessionists. They plotted with the Germans so that Flanders could separate.”

“You mean while our boys were there in Flanders fighting the war some of the Flemish people were plotting against them.”

“Yes, Dot. Not everyone thought this was a just war and they had good reasons to think that. But the people who wrote and read Flamenpolitik thought they could end it by making it worse. There were some people who believed that some of the secessionists gave away allied secrets and caused people to die.”

“That’s awful Miss. It could have been Bert or Cec or Inspector Robinson. Or you.” 

“Yes, Dot. It could have, but it wasn’t. Don’t get anxious about things that could have happened in the past but didn’t.”

“No, Miss. But it makes me less interested in helping out Mr. Phillippe.” 

“We don’t know why he has these clippings, Dot. They don’t mean that he was writing for or associated with Flamenpolitik. The author seems to be a Phelups Maes. I wonder how we can find out who he was?”

“Do you know any Flemish people, Miss?” Dot asked. 

“No, but I do know a Belgian chocolatier. He might be able to help us translate and it never hurts to acquire more chocolate, eh, Dot?”

“No, Miss,” Dot looked at her own figure and Miss Fisher’s and thought that while it might not hurt Miss Fisher to have more chocolate, she couldn’t be so sure about herself. 

“Tomorrow, when we take our lunch break we can wander over to Chocolat Belge and speak Willem Janssens. In the meantime, I will call Inspector Robinson and ask him if he can get anything from Army Intelligence about Flamenpolitik.”

Phryne walked to the phone and dialed City South. “Jack,” she chirped happily when he picked up. “You are working late.” She nodded impatiently at some explanation he gave. “Dot has found something interesting. She located some old versions of Flamenpolitik in the bookstore.” She paused to listen. “Yes, Jack, I am aware that Flamenpolitik was the newspaper of the secessionists.” She paused again. “And yes, Jack, I am aware that Natan had some Flemish documents. I still don’t believe he was a collaborator. But I need some help from you. Do you have any connections to Army Intelligence? And if so, do you think they might be able to help us track down any of the people writing in Flamenpolitik who might have made it to Australia?” She listened, “you might? Wonderful, Jack. Let’s regroup here tomorrow night and see what we have all be able to glean.”

After she hung up, she called to Mr. Butler, “Inspector Robinson will be joining us for dinner tomorrow and perhaps we should include Constable Collins as well. What do you think, Dot?”

Dot blushed shyly and agreed. “Very well, Dot, call back to the station and invite him.” 

“Yes, Miss.” Dot still felt a bit dubious around telephones but went out to the hallway to make the call. 

The next day, after a busy morning at Librarie d’esprit, Phryne and Dot walked arm in arm across the eastern market to Chocolat Belge and greeted her old friend Willem. “Miss Fisher, so lovely to see you again. How may I help you?” 

Phryne kissed Willem Janssens on both cheeks and replied, “with some of your wonderful chocolate and perhaps a bit of information.”

“I am at your service, my dear Phryne.”

“Dot, why don’t you have Willem’s assistant help you with choosing a nice box of chocolates that we can serve with after dinner drinks tonight?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Willem, I have some more serious business for you. I need some help understanding some of these old Flemish newspapers.” She handed over the copies of Flamenpolitik. Willem Janssens recoiled at them. 

“I thought I would never see that rubbish again. Why do you want to know what lies and sedition are in those pages?”

“I am afraid a friend of mine, Natan Phillippe of Librarie d’esprit, had them. He was badly injured in a robbery a few days ago. I need to understand them in order to know if they are relevant.”

“No one should have these anymore. After the war ended, Flanders and Belgium felt such shame because the secessionists were able to co-opt the press to help the Kaiser.”

“How did they do that, Willem? Was it just stories to rally people or was it worse?”

“Worse, Phryne, much worse. I heard that sometimes they would use Flamenpolitik to give away resistance fighters or the positions of troops.”

“I know it is painful Willem, but if you can help me understand these papers, please try.” Phryne was pleading.

“Give them to me.” Willem took them gruffly and went back into his office. He directed his assistant to make Phryne and Dot some coffee and offer them a chocolate while they waited. 

After about twenty minutes, Janssens was back with some notes. 

“Much of this is just ranting about the evils of the French and Belgian governments and the benefits of separation. But this article by Phelups Maes is a bit different. It seems like it is just the usual small town story of the sale of some cattle. But the locations don’t make much sense. The cattle to be sold are in the town of Roubaix which is outside of Flanders and not known for a cattle market. It is a very important textile market. The article is very detailed about what cattle are to be sold and where. It makes me suspicious that this article is like I told you about. It is code for movement of troops or something like that. Roubaix was occupied throughout the whole war.”

“Roubaix, you say?”

“Yes, the Town of Roubaix. Is that important?”

“It might be. What is the date again?”

“The paper is dated August 20, 1916. ”

“Hmm. Thanks for that, Willem. I know it was difficult.”

“These people didn’t start out evil. But when they decided to help the Germans kill the Belgians and the French, they became evil. It was a dark time, but we are now over it. The only dark things we like now are dark chocolates, eh, Mademoiselle Fisher?”

“Mais, oui, Monsieur Janssens. Dot, have you chosen your chocolates?”

“Yes, Miss. They are very beautiful.” 

“They will be perfect with a bit of port after dinner. I shall tell Mr. Butler to plan a delightful repast with them in mind.”


	9. Chapter 9

Jack was used to night caps in Phryne’s parlour, but he had only had one working dinner at her home and was a little nervous about having this one. He had to confess a slight disappointment when Collins had told him that he was also invited, but in the end had decided that it was for the best. He resolved, again, to keep a certain professional distance around Miss Fisher. 

Constable Collins had been very twitchy and distracted around the office all afternoon. He was trying to do his job but finding it hard to concentrate. He kept turning towards the Inspector’s office and then turning back. He wanted to ask if he should change his clothes, bring flowers, or move to the outback forever. 

He was supposed to be making sense out of the immigration records for Natan Phillippe and Francoise Letourneau. It appeared that Monsieur Phillippe had arrived alone although a number of French émigrés also arrived in 1916 and many on the same boat. So, it was possible that he was not alone when he came. He also imported many crates of books over the years since he had arrived, some containing very valuable books based on the duties that were paid. There was no record that he had married or had children. “It seems our Monsieur Phillippe was a bit of loner,” Jack observed when Collins briefed him. 

“Have you found out anything about his family in France?”

“Not much, Sir. He was in his 20’s when he arrived in Australia and it appears his parents are deceased. I haven’t been able to tell if he had a wife or any siblings.” 

“Thank you, Collins. What about Francoise Letourneau?”

“Well, sir, I followed up on the newspaper article you showed me. A Francoise Letourneau of the same name and age was the only survivor of a bomb in a house in Roubaix on August 30, 1916. The explosion was part of an effort by the Germans to resist a French advance on the town to retake it as well as an attempt to uproot a resistance group in the town. Roubaix was occupied through the entire war. The records for the Francoise Letourneau who moved to Australia show parents as deceased and no siblings.”

“So, it could be the same woman?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Was she unaccompanied when she arrived?”

“I can’t tell, sir. Again, there were several French émigrés in the same time period, 1927.”

“You said she lived in St. Kilda?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let’s go and visit Mademoiselle Letourneau, shall we, Collins?”

“Yes, Sir. Uh, Sir?”

“Yes, Collins?”

“How are you going to dress for dinner tonight?”

“Dress, Collins?”

“Yes, I mean, I guess you don’t have a uniform, so maybe it doesn’t matter as much.”

“I see. You want to know if you should wear civvies or stay in uniform. I am sure that they won’t mind either way.”

“That doesn’t help, Sir.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. It is supposed to be a working dinner not a romantic dinner. So, the uniform would be okay. However, I can see that since you are courting Miss Williams, you might think of it as a more romantic evening than Miss Fisher and I will. Therefore, perhaps, yes, you should go home and change into something less formal. We are due at seven, so if we knock off at six, will that be enough time?”

“Yes, Sir, that will do. And thank you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome, Collins. Is that all the romantic advice required at the moment?”

“Yes, Sir.” Collins was grateful for the Inspector’s advice about women even though he sometimes doubted the Inspector’s own experience at courting.

“Then, bring the car around.”

The two men chatted amiably about footy as they drove to the address they had for Francoise Letourneau. She answered after only one knock.

Mademoiselle Letourneau was a strikingly beautiful woman in her early 30’s with dark brown hair in a chignon, brown eyes and a lithe, fit body. She was dressed in an ordinary frock but no one looking at her would describe her as ordinary. 

“Hello, may I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

“Detective Inspector Robinson and this is Constable Collins. May we come in?”

“Certainment. What is it about?” Mademoiselle Letourneau turned on the kettle for tea and laid out some biscuits for the two men.

“Are you familiar with a Monsieur Natan Phillippe? He owns a bookstore called Librarie d’esprit?”

“Non, I mean, no. I don’t know him. Since coming to Australia, I am trying to become more Australian so I am working on reading in English. Should I know him?” Mademoiselle Letourneau sounded breezy, but Jack noticed a slight flicker of anxiety in her eyes.

“He had a copy of an article about the bombing of a house in Roubaix in which only one person, a Francoise Letourneau, survived. She would be the same age as you. We wondered if it was you.”

“No, that isn’t me. But how tragic. Was it recent?”

“No, during the war.”

“I was very young during the war and tried not to accept the reality of it. I was very glad when I was able to leave France at last.”

“Why did you wait so many years?”

“I was young and I had obligations to others to consider.”

“Did you leave family behind?” Jack asked.

“The war was unkind to my family,” she replied with a firmness that Jack understood meant she would not provide anything further on the subject.

Collins piped up, “If you don’t mind the question, why did you choose Australia?”

“Because it was a very long way from France. And it has koala bears.” She laughed sweetly in a way that caused both men to feel a frisson of attraction. Francoise Letourneau was quite a woman. 

“Thank you, Mademoiselle, we won’t take any more of your time.”

The two men walked back outside to the car.

“Did anything strike you as odd about that, Collins?”

“Well, Sir, she mentioned obligations but didn’t say what and she suggested her family had not survived the war. So why wait so long to leave a place she clearly didn’t like.”

“Agreed, Collins. Also, on her mantlepiece there were some pictures from France and one of them looked very much like a young Natan Phillippe in Roubaix.” 

“I didn’t know you had been to Roubaix.”

“I haven’t Collins, but I have seen many pictures of it because it hosts a very important bicycle race. I would swear that she and Natan Phillippe are in that photograph standing in front of the Roubaix cathedral. We need to get our hands on that photograph.”

“Why not just ask for it, Sir?” Collins asked.

“Because if she is involved, we don’t necessarily want to tip our hand. Maybe this is one time that our Miss Fisher can be useful.”

“Sir?” Collins was quizzical.

“Miss Fisher can employ methods that we can’t. If she can get a look at that picture, she might be able to assist. She also knows Natan much better than we do and will be able to confirm if this is the right Francoise Letourneau.”

Jack looked at his watch. “Collins, if you are going to get changed in time for dinner, you should probably head off now.”

“Thank you, Sir. I will see you at Miss Fisher’s then, Sir.”

“Yes, Collins, I will be there.”


	10. Chapter 10

Jack let Collins take the police car home to change and took the opportunity to wander along the St. Kilda foreshore. 

“Oy, Inspector,” Jack heard a familiar voice calling from the road.

“Albert,” he answered as he walked towards the cab owned by Albert Johnson and Cecil Yates.

“What are you about walking around the foreshore? Need a ride anywhere?”

“No, Albert. I am expected for dinner at Miss Fisher’s in an hour or so and it seemed like too much trouble to go back to the station just to turn around and come back.”

“We were just headed off for a pint. Can we stand you one?”

“Two red raggers offering a pint to a rozzer? Must be cold down under today.”

“Nah, we just thought you looked a bit lonely, is all,” Cec, the softer hearted of the two men offered. 

“Lonely, eh? I wouldn’t say that, but I won’t turn down a beer if you are offering.” Jack climbed into the back of the taxi and reflected on how observant Cec Yates could be. Jack might deny loneliness to the two cabbies, but not to himself.

The three men entered the Rose and Crown to some curious looks. It wasn’t every day that two men in dustcoats were joined by a man in a well-tailored suit. 

“My shout,” Jack offered and ordered three pints of ale from the barman before joining Bert and Cec along the wall.

After a moment of quiet drinking, Jack opened the conversation, “we are working on a case about France in the war.”

“Not another one,” Bert growled.

“This one is a little different. It is troubling me. Do you remember much about the French resistance when you were over there?”

“Not much resisting it seemed to us. The only people we saw getting slaughtered were diggers.” 

“That ain’t true, Bert.” Cec chided him. “We wound up billeted at a farm and there were some comings and goings that clearly had to do with trying to scupper the krauts.”

“Like what, Cecil?” Jack asked. 

“Like boxes of guns being stored in the barn under the hay stacks and Frenchies whispering over maps.” 

“Why are you asking?” Bert spoke.

“It is possible that this case has to do with both resistance and collaborators.”

“Collaborators here in Melbourne?” Bert growled again. “I better not find out where they are. Lot of my mates are lying deep in muck trying to save those frogs.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Albert. This is peacetime.”

“It will never be peacetime for them. You should know. You have mates left over there, too.”

“I do. And I will never forget them, but they died so that we don’t have to go to war anymore.” 

“Where did you serve, Inspector?”

“Gallipoli and Pozieres like pretty much all the ANZAC’s. You? 

“Same. Were you an officer?”

“Lance Corporal. All the responsibility with none of the authority.” The three men laughed cynically.

“I bet your men liked you.”

“I hope so, but it was more important that they trusted me. I wasn’t too sure even I should trust me. It was a bloody mess over there and we were so young.”

“Too right,” Bert replied.

“Can we help you catch these collaborating bastards?” Cec asked.

“Maybe you can. There is a woman named Francoise Letourneau who may be involved. I don’t think she was a collaborator, but she may know who is. It might be useful if you could keep an eye on her, but don’t approach her and don’t let her know you are there. I remind you, the war is over. Even if we catch the criminals in this case and they were collaborators, there is a justice system to deal with them.” Jack handed over Francoise Letourneau’s address.

“Yeah,” Bert spat on the ground indicating his distrust of the system to deal with people he thought worse than the devil.

“I am only asking you to do this because I trust you. Don’t betray that trust.”

The cabbies both nodded and offered their hands to shake over the arrangement.

“Let’s drop you at Miss Fisher’s, maybe Mr. B. will let us have some of the left overs.”

“Certainly not,” was Phryne’s quick reply to the request from Bert and Cec. “You will join us in the dining room. Mr. B, set two, no three more places. You should join us as well.”

Mr. Butler had laid on a lovely repast of asparagus bisque, roast pork loin with apples, potatoes gratin and a dessert of passionfruit pavlova. All the diners partook with relish. 

“So, Jack, where are we at in the investigation?” Phryne started the discussion. 

“Collins, why don’t you fill in the assembled masses?” Jack offered Hugh the chance to impress his sweetheart.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said, getting out his notebook, thankful he had remembered to bring it.

“We located a Francoise Letourneau who immigrated to Australia in 1927. Her parents, as listed on her birth certificate are deceased and she says she has no family. No,” he stopped to consult his notes,” she said the war was unkind to her family. She came to Australia to be as far from France as possible.” 

Jack took over the narration. “In her apartment, I spotted a photograph on the mantle that I could swear was her with Natan Phillippe in front of Eglise St. Martin in Roubaix.” 

“Something that places them together in the place that we think her family were killed,” Phryne observed.

“Correct.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“No. I didn’t want to spook her and I couldn’t be sure of what I saw.”

“So, I may need to make a surreptitious visit to Mademoiselle Letourneau’s and see what I can see.”

“You know, Miss Fisher, I can’t authorize that,” Jack said coyly.

“Consider it fully unauthorized. Did you find out anything from your Army Intelligence connections?”

“Alas, no. It seems that most of the bylines in Flamenpolitik were aliases and not all of them have been traced. But they had no reason to believe any of the ones they do know of ever made it to Australia.”

“I hope that means that Natan may be off the hook for being a collaborator,” Phryne said, hoping it to be true.

“Or that he was never traced,” replied Jack. “We can’t rule it out no matter how badly you would like us to.” Phryne nodded her agreement. 

Phryne gestured to her companion. “Dot, perhaps you can share what we learned?” She also wanted to show off Dot to her young beau.

“We talked to Mr. Janssens at Chocolat Belge. Actually, we have lovely chocolates to eat in the parlour, perhaps we should move over there and I will continue when we have sat down.”

The group moved into the parlour with Mr. Butler carrying the good port and Dot bringing the chocolates. 

“Just a beer for me, if you don’t mind, Mr. B.” Bert had never developed a taste for port. “Me too,” Cec added.

After most of the group were seated with Jack leaning against the mantle, Dot continued, “Mr. Janssens was very unhappy talking about the Flamenpolitik. He said it brought back bad memories of the collaborators.” Bert growled from his seat. 

“He translated the story about Roubaix. It was about a cattle auction in August 2016. Mr. Janssens said that Roubaix was more of an industrial place than agricultural. He thought it could be code for the movement of troops.”

Mr. Butler piped up from pouring drinks, “Roubaix was occupied during the entire war, but it was a key resistance city. In 1916 a large number of citizens were rounded up and sent to forced labour camps in Germany.”

“How do you know this, Mr. Butler?” Phryne asked.

“It’s best I don’t say,” he replied and left to return to the kitchen.

“Hmm. I have always wondered about that man’s past,” Phryne mused. 

“So, Roubaix was a hotbed of resistance and was near the border to Flanders where Flamenpolitik was stirring up trouble,” Jack started pulling the threads together.

“But what is the connection between Natan Phillippe and Francoise Letourneau and does it have anything to do with the bookstore break in?”

Mr. Butler returned to the parlour. “Telephone for you, Inspector. It is the hospital.”

Jack returned to the parlour with his hat and coat. “Collins, come with me.”

“What is it, Jack?” Phryne jumped up to follow them.

“Natan Phillippe is dead. He appears to have been poisoned in his room.”

“But there was a 24 hour watch on him?” Phryne cried.

“Yes, but clearly someone gave them the slip. Collins, are you coming?”

Hugh Collins jumped up from where he had been sitting beside Dot. “Yes, Sir.”

“I’m coming too, Jack,” Phryne reached for her hat and wrap from the hall stand. 

Before they left, Jack gave a nod to Bert and Cec who put down their beers and followed them out. Phryne couldn’t help noticing and gave Jack an inquiring eyebrow raise. He merely cocked his head and opened the passenger door of the police car.


	11. Chapter 11

Bert and Cec had never been asked to work on a case by Inspector Robinson before. They were simultaneously chuffed and a bit nervous. They generally hated the coppers but they liked the detective and since Miss Fisher trusted him, they did, too. Jack, too, had had his doubts about employing the cabbies, but he did trust them and they might be less conspicuous than a police stakeout. He still had no official reason to be tailing Mademoiselle Letourneau. And it wasn’t the first time he had used civilians for information.

As they drove to the address in St. Kilda, they reflected on their relationship to Miss Fisher and Inspector Robinson. 

“You suppose him and Miss Fisher are gonna get together some day?” Cec asked. He often had a romantic turn of mind.

“Ha!” Bert replied. “Not bloody likely. She seems to like ‘em by the dozen. Not that there’s any problem with that. When the revolution finally comes women will have the right to do whatever they want. No more foolishness about staying chained to the stove.” Bert was the more militant of the two red raggers. 

“Yeah, maybe. But she does seem a bit different around him. You know, a bit more alert, more flirty.”

“You sound like a railway novel when you talk like that.” Bert frowned at his friend.

“I think it would be nice for her to have someone steady like the Inspector around.”

“You’re jokin’ mate. No way a copper winds up in high society. I don’t like the rozzers, but they are as downtrodden as we are when it comes to the capitalist bastards.”

“Miss Fisher ain’t a capitalist bastard.” Cec defended his patron and friend.

“Yeah, but she ain’t no workin’ class girl, neither. I don’t see it. Anyway, why are we talking about that anyway. Here’s the address.”

The apartment windows were all dark but one. They could see three people sitting at a table lit by a gas lantern. 

“What do you reckon? Men or women?” Bert asked.

“Maybe two men and one woman. Look now she’s standing, definitely a woman.”

“Too bad we can’t hear them talking.”

“Maybe we can. It looks like the window is a bit open. If we could get into that shrubbery without being noticed, we might be able to overhear.”

The two men climbed out of the cab and closed the doors quietly. They managed to find a way around the back of the building so that they could approach the bushes without being seen. 

“Damn,” Bert observed whispering to Cec, “they are speaking in frog.”

Cec shushed his friend with a finger over his lips. Though neither man could understand the conversation, they were able to tell it was two men and one woman speaking. They also recognized the words ‘Roubaix’, ‘enfant’ and something that sounded like ‘feel up mice’. When they heard one of the men say, “au revoir”, they hurried back to the cab and followed the two men who walked to the tram stop and headed back to downtown Melbourne. 

The cabbies followed the men to a flophouse on Little Lonsdale. 

“Do you suppose we ought to stay here for a while and see if they come back out?” Bert asked. Cec nodded. 

“Could be a long night. I don’t know how the coppers do it,” Bert observed. 

“They probably bring lunch. But after that meal, I don’t think I need to eat again for a few days,” Cec laughed.

“Too right.”

The two men sat in the companionable silence of friends who had known each other a very long time. The calm was interrupted by the passenger door being flung open and Cec falling into the arms of a large man dressed in black. 

“Qui etes-vous?” he shouted over Cec and into the cab.

“Take it easy, mate. You’re the one breaking into our cab,” Bert raised his hands, palms out, to indicate that he wasn’t fighting back. 

The large man held Cec in a half-nelson and didn’t look like he was going to let go soon. He nodded and the door behind Bert burst open and he fell backwards into the arms of another man. 

“Wadda ya want?” Bert shouted, wriggling against the hold.

“Why are you following us?” asked the first man in a thick French accent. 

“Who said we were following you?” Cec answered feigning innocence.

“We are not stupid,” the man replied in a thick French accent. “We recognized your car from outside the house we were at before we came here. I ask you again, why are you following us?”

“It’s just a coincidence, mate,” Bert replied, grasping for anything that might tone down the temperature of the altercation. “We were there and now we are here.”

“So, you just drive around in your cab and sit inside it for no reason?”

“Well, actually, we do,” Cec replied. “It’s the job to sit and wait for fares.”

“Ha!”, the man laughed angrily. “I don’t believe you. Now, take this message back to whoever you work for.” He slammed Cec’s head against the side of the car.

Bert managed to wrestle free from the hold he was in and turned and punched the man on his side of the car straight in the nose and heard the satisfying sound of breaking cartilage. “Merde,” the man let out a strangled curse. “On y va,” he cried to his partner.

The man standing over Cec gave him a couple of kicks on the ground before running off with Bert in hot pursuit. After only a few paces, Bert realized that Cec may need him and ran back to drag his unconscious friend into the cab and race for the hospital. 

“Hang in there, Cec, you’ll be alright. Can’t hurt you by hittin’ ya in the head, after all.”

Bert raced to the hospital and on arrival jumped out and ran for a porter to help carry his best friend inside.


	12. Chapter 12

When the two police officers and Phryne had arrived at University Hospital, they found the coroner was already there. As usual, he was unimpressed with the presence of Miss Fisher. 

“Inspector, I fail to see why this woman, this civilian, needs to be present at all your murders.”

“Fortunately, it is not your concern whom I bring to my murders, Doctor. And, since this is not the morgue, you don’t get to decide whether she stays or goes. Now, please tell us what you know about how this man died.”

Natan Phillippe was lying in his hospital bed, but his arms were flung out as though he had been struggling and there was foam at his mouth. His face was pale and his lips were blue.

“Simply looking at him, it is clear he died of some kind of suffocation whether physically or chemically induced. The foam at his mouth and the smell suggests something chemical.”

Phryne leaned over the body and sniffed. “Almonds.” 

“Correct, Miss Fisher,” the coroner sneered. “Cyanide.”

“How long ago?” Jack asked the coroner.

“I can’t say, yet, but he isn’t especially cold. Perhaps two hours?”

“So, after I interviewed Mademoiselle Letourneau,” Jack observed.

“Do you think she would have done it?” Phryne asked.

“I don’t know. The timing is interesting. Now I need to find out what happened to the constable who was supposed to be watching.”

Jack had sent Collins to find and interview the Constable who was on duty. When he arrived where the two men were standing, he could see that Collins was giving his peer quite a dressing down. 

“Collins,” Jack said sternly. “What happened?”

“Constable Martin was supposed to be watching at all times. But he left to get a cup of tea with one of the nurses.” 

“Martin, surveillance means surveillance. The nurse could have brought the tea to you.”

“Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean for that man to die.”

“You may not have meant it, but it is the result and we don’t place 24 hour surveillance on people unless we are concerned for their safety.”

“Yes, Sir. Perhaps I should resign, Sir.”

“Of course you shouldn’t resign, Martin.” Jack’s tone reflected his combined frustration and sympathy for the young man. “If every copper who made a mistake resigned, there wouldn’t be a police force. However, you may want to reflect on the seriousness of what happened. Now what else did you observe on your watch?”

Martin brightened a bit, but Collins continued to frown sternly at him. “I arrived at 3 pm for my shift. Constable Craddock said that nothing had happened through his whole shift. There were three visitors.” Martin consulted his notes. “Mr. Lawrence Mitchell. He was a big bloke in a garish suit. They talked for quite a while but Mr. Phillippe was still alive when he left. Then there were two sheilas, Lindy Bell and Samantha Levine. They cried a lot and Mr. Phillippe comforted them. He also gave them a box of some kind. I asked them what it was and they said mementos.”

“Did you look at it, Martin?” Jack asked

“Yes. It was a bunch of old photos.”

“I take it that Phillippe was still alive when they left.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“When did you leave for tea?”

“About half-six, Sir.”

“And how long were you gone?”

“About 15 minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes!” Collins exploded. “How does that happen?”

“Collins,” Jack admonished him and Collins toned down. Jack turned to Constable Martin. “It is not Constable Collins’ place to discipline you, but it is mine. Fifteen minutes is an unacceptable amount of time to leave your post. I can understand a call of nature, but not fifteen minutes.”

“I am very sorry, Sir.”

“Did you see anything unusual before you left?”

“No, Sir. Well, a couple of men walked up and down the corridor like they were looking for someone. But then they walked into the room at the end of the hall and greeted someone there. I just figured they had found who they were looking for.”

Jack and Hugh hurried down the corridor to the door that Martin had pointed out. It was a hospital room but it looked like it had been empty for some time.

“Constable Martin,” Jack spoke to the young officer, “that room is empty. Perhaps you weren’t to know that, but I am afraid that I will have to write this matter up and put it on your record. You will find yourself back on traffic duty for a few months.”

“Thank you, Sir. It’s better than being sacked.”

“Now, tell me as best you can what these men looked like? Would you recognize them in a line up?”

“Yes, I think so, Sir. They were average height and wore trilbies. But they both had dark complexions and one had a thin moustache. The other one wore glasses. Their clothes weren’t new and they looked European, if you know what I mean. They didn’t look like they were made here.”

“Good observations, Martin. You may be redeeming yourself.”

“Did they say anything?”

“Only when they opened the door to the room one said, ‘man vey me’.”

Phryne who had come out of Natan’s room in time to hear the conversation said, “Mon veil ami. ‘My old friend.’ They were French. It must have been them.”

Jack turned to Phryne who appeared a bit shaken. “I am sorry about the loss of your friend, Phryne. I need to go to the station and start working on the paper work for this death. Do you want us to drop you at home?”

“No, I think you should drop me at Natan’s shop. I want to talk to Lindy and Samantha about that box. But do come by for a night cap, later and we can compare notes.”

As the Phryne and Jack entered the foyer of the hospital they saw Bert and a porter carrying Cec inside. The man on the stretcher was beginning to come to.

“What happened?” Phryne exclaimed rushing to Cec’s side. 

“Bloody frogs got the jump on us,” Bert growled.

“I thought I told you to stay out of sight.” Jack said sternly.

“You did, and we did. Or at least we thought we did,” Bert replied crossly. “Now can you help my mate see a doctor?”

“Of course,” Phryne replied. “This way.” 

Cec was examined by the night physician who pronounced bruised ribs and a mild concussion but said the cabbie was okay to go home. Before they left, they shared their observations with Jack and Phryne.

“So they were with Francoise Letourneau before they beat you up downtown.”

“Right, Miss.”

“And you say that they were speaking in French.”

“Right, but the only words we got were what we told you, ‘Roubaix, enfant and ‘feel up mice.”

“So, perhaps there was a child involved after all,” Phryne turned to Jack for confirmation. 

“But Mademoiselle Letourneau didn’t bring a child with her and if it was born in the war it would still be quite young.”

“Maybe the child died and she came here to find Natan.”

“But why kill him?”

Jack turned to the cabbies and asked them if they could identify the two men.

“Medium sized blokes. One had glasses and one had a small moustache,” replied Cec.

“Sounds like the same two who were here,” Phryne said. “So there is now a link between Francoise Letourneau and Natan, but we still don’t know what or why she would want him dead. Jack, now I really want to get back to Librarie d’esprit.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Ladies, I need to see the box that you got from Natan at the hospital today.”

When Jack dropped Phryne at the back of Librarie d’esprit, she had gone straight upstairs to the young women’s apartment and knocked sharply on the door.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Lindy Bell replied. She looked around sheepishly and Phryne saw her glance at a small box on the table in the middle of the kitchen behind her.

“Please, let’s not insult one another,” Phryne replied. She pushed past Miss Bell and into the entrance of the apartment. “I know that you received that box when you visited Natan today. He is now dead. That box could be helpful.”

“Dead,” Samantha Levine gasped from behind the door. “Dead?” she exclaimed again and started to cry. “What will we do without Natan?”

“Calm down, Miss Levine. I appreciate that you depended on his good graces but now we need to work together to find out what happened to him.”

“What did happen to him,” asked Lindy. Phryne had noticed in prior encounters that she was the more level-headed of the two young writers and appreciated her calmness at this moment.

“He was poisoned.”

“Poisoned,” Samantha said and then fainted into a nearby chair.

“Please come in Miss Fisher,” Lindy said as she fanned her friend. “Samantha is very emotional and Natan was very close to us.”

“What did Natan tell you about the box?”

“He told us that it contained important personal things and he wanted us to take care of it for him.”

“Did he say why he had it at the hospital? He went there in an ambulance.”

“No, but it isn’t very big. Perhaps it was in his pocket.” Lindy indicated the box on the kitchen table. It was not much bigger than a cigarette case. When Phryne opened it she found it was full of photographs and a lock of hair.

“These are pictures of Natan and a young woman,” Phryne observed as she flipped through them. “And a baby. So I was right, there is a baby in the story somewhere.”

She turned the photos over and saw some names on the back. “This says ‘Phillippe and Francoise. So maybe Natan was an alias and his real name was Phillippe something.” As she said this she had the sense that she knew the connection but couldn’t put all the pieces together. 

“Why would he be here under an alias?” Samantha asked as she started to regain her senses.

“I don’t know, Miss Levine,” Phryne replied, “but I intend to find out.”

All three women started as they heard noises in the bookshop below them. “Shh!” Phryne shushed them all. “It’s 11 o’clock at night. Who would be in the bookshop?”

“We don’t know, Miss Fisher. Natan would work late but it can’t be him, can it?” Lindy whispered. 

“Not unless he is a ghost. Stay here and stay quiet,” Phryne admonished the two women and crept quietly out the door and down the back stairs. 

She hurried around to the front entrance with her gun in her hand. When she entered the shop she turned on the overhead lights and saw Lawrence Mitchell rummaging through the rare books cabinet behind the front counter. 

“Mr. Mitchell,” she said, training her gun on his solar plexus, “I am sure I could help you if you would come back during our regular hours.”

Mitchell, taken by surprise, hit his head on the cabinet as he tried to rise and turn to face her. Rubbing his head, he smiled at her, hoping his charm could diffuse the awkward situation.

“You don’t need that, Miss Fisher,” he said, nodding at the gun. “I’m unarmed.”

“I will be the judge of whether I need it or not. Talk, Mr. Mitchell. What are you doing in my shop in the middle of the night?”

“Natan’s shop, don’t you mean?”

“Since Natan is now deceased, the shop will go to whomever his heirs are. But I don’t plan to hand it over until I find out who murdered him.”

“Murdered,” Mitchell was thunderstruck. “Who would murder Natan?”

“Perhaps you can tell me,” Phryne replied. “You still haven’t said why you were here.”

Mitchell shook his head sadly. “You know, I liked Natan, despite everything.” He paused then looked at the rare books cabinet. “I was here to steal a book. Natan was a purveyor of many things literary. He had books for the hoi polloi, books for intellectuals, books for dabblers in the arts of pleasure,” he looked salaciously at Phryne as he said that, “and books for lovers of all things rare.” 

“Yes?” Phryne waved the pistol to encourage him to continue.

“Some of his wares had a dubious provenance. Natan would assure his buyers that he was the rightful owner, but he could never produce any documentation about them.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were stealing one.”

“No. I noticed he had a copy of Erasmus’ Apophthegms. It is extremely rare and was reported as stolen some years ago. I wanted to see it for myself. If it is the stolen one, Natan might be willing to sell it to me for a discount.”

“You don’t care that it is stolen, only that you get it cheaply?” Phryne said sarcastically.

“In the rare book field, dubious provenance is always on the table,” he replied shrugging. “Now can you put down that gun?”

Phryne lowered the pistol. “So is the book there?”

“I don’t know. You surprised me before I found it.”

Phryne joined Mitchell at the cabinet and started to go through the volumes there. “Here it is.” She held up a book carefully wrapped in paper but noted as ‘Erasmus’ on the outside. They took it over to the front counter where they could unwrap it in the light. 

“Ooh,” gushed Mitchell as they examined the cover. “Such beauty.” 

Phryne opened the flyleaf and a small piece of paper fluttered out. “Look at this. It says ‘Jean Letourneau, Roubaix. I wonder if this Letourneau is related to Francoise?”

“Francoise?” Mitchell queried. 

“Nothing for you to worry about. Is this the stolen volume?”

“Yes. The owner was Jean Letourneau. But he died in the war along with his whole family. So it should go to the heirs. Only no know knows what happened to them, so as far as I am concerned, it is up for whoever wants to keep it safe until they turn up.”

“In this case, you see yourself as the custodian?” Phryne asked.

“Why not?” Mitchell replied.

“Because you are an odious human being?” she said pulling out her pistol again. “Time to go, Mr. Mitchell.”

“So you plan to steal it then?”

“No, I think I know where the heir is and I plan to return it. Leave now and I won’t tell Inspector Robinson that you broke into the shop.”

Mitchell walked carefully backwards through the door of the shop and hurried away.

“Oh, Natan, what were you really?” Phryne said to herself as she locked the door behind him and leaned back against the door. 

She reflected on the irony of being surrounded by books that contained stories of mistaken identities and aliases and wished one of them might offer a clue.


	14. Chapter 14

After Phryne locked up, she took a chance that Jack was still at his office. She hailed a taxi and had it drop her off at City South. When she arrived, Jack updated her on his activities in relation to the case. He had seen Natan Phillippe taken to the morgue and started the mountain of paperwork that accompanied a violent death. 

“Inspector,” she said brightly, “I think we may have a bit of a breakthrough.”

“Do tell, Miss Fisher,” Jack replied, pouring them both a glass of whisky from the secret stash he kept for long nights at his desk. 

“This is a copy of Apophthegms,” she held out the book she was carrying.

“Erasmus,” Jack replied, “rare.”

“Very. I found it after I caught Lawrence Mitchell pawing through the rare books cabinet at Librarie d’esprit. It is stolen.”

“Who is the rightful owner?” Jack asked.

“It appears to be someone named Jean Letourneau.”

“Is that Francoise Letourneau’s father or brother?”

“Father, I believe. Where is that French newspaper article we found at Natan’s?”

Jack opened the file on the case and handed her the clipping. 

“Here,” she pointed at the page, “the family killed were Jean and Marie Letourneau and a son Jacques. Jean was a bookseller.”

“So did Natan steal books from Letourneau before escaping to Australia?”

“Let’s look at the timeline. The bombing was in August 1916. Natan immigrated in November 1916. It’s possible,” Phryne concluded.

“There’s more,” she continued. She held out the box of photos. “Pictures of a Phillippe and Francoise. Only Phillippe is clearly Natan. And there is also a baby picture.”

“These are very much like the photo I saw on Francoise Letourneau’s mantle. This may be the connection we need to bring her in, but we need to move quickly. Now that Natan is dead, she may have already bolted.”

“I took a taxi here,” Phryne said. “We will need to go in the police car.”

“I will drive,” Jack said. 

“I thought you said we needed to hurry,” Phryne said, teasingly.

“Hurry but not die in the process, Miss Fisher. Are you coming?”

Phryne didn’t reply but simply sashayed out of the front door of City South, with Jack following admiringly behind.

The detectives drove quickly but lawfully to St. Kilda. The flat occupied by Francoise Letourneau still had a light on so Jack knocked loudly and called out “Victoria Police, Mademoiselle Francoise, open up.”

They could hear movement in the apartment and then saw three figures running around the side of the building heading towards a parked car.

“After them, Jack!” Phryne shouted. While Jack pulled his pistol and chased after the group, Phryne ran for the police car. The fugitives had jumped into their vehicle and were putting it into gear when Phryne positioned the police car in front so they couldn’t go forward. Jack stood behind the car with his gun pointed at the driver and shouted, “stop and get out with your hands in the air.” 

They could hear a woman’s voice saying, “c’est finis, mon amis, c’est finis.” Then she stepped out of the passenger seat and walked towards Jack. 

“Don’t shoot, Inspector. I have done what I needed to do. You can arrest me.”

“But not us,” shouted the men in the car and the driver threw it into reverse and accelerated straight towards them. 

Jack grabbed Francoise Letourneau and dived out of the way. When the driver shifted into forward and tried to drive away, Phryne threw the police car in reverse and the getaway car slammed into the side causing the driver to hit his head on the steering wheel and the car engine to die. 

“Phryne!” Jack called. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly,” she replied brightly. “You?”

“Good,” he answered.

“Toss me your darbys and I will take care of our two fugitives.” Jack could see that she was holding them in the car with her pistol. He threw over the handcuffs and she cuffed them together and to the steering wheel. 

As she did so, Jack turned to Francoise Letourneau and said “I am charging you with the murder of Natan Phillippe.” 

She replied, “I think you mean Phillippe Mercier. And I think you will find that the world is a better place without him in it.”


	15. Chapter 15

Jack and Phryne decided that it was too late to conduct the interviews with Francoise Letourneau and her two henchmen so they left them in the cells overnight. The next morning they were finally able to get the whole story.

Phryne opened the small box of photos and passed over one of Francoise and Natan as a young couple, clearly in love. She looked at Francoise with sympathy and said kindly, “tell us about Natan Phillippe or Phillippe Mercier.” 

Francoise Letourneau picked up the photograph and stared at it with an expression that mixed nostalgia and disgust. She placed it back on the table and replied to Phryne’s question. “Natan Phillippe’s real name is Phillippe Mercier and he worked in my father’s shop in Roubaix. We were lovers. I should correct that. The name he gave us was Phillippe Mercier, but perhaps that was also a lie. We didn’t ever really know that much about him.”

“You must have been very young,” Phryne observed looking at the picture.

“Fifteen, but I knew everything about world. Or so I thought. And I was in love with Phillippe.”

“There was a baby?” Jack asked.

“Yes. A girl. She was so beautiful. But Phillippe was gone by then. He said he was going on a trip to see his family, but he never came back.”

“Were you married, Mademoiselle Letourneau”, Jack asked gently.

“Non. But Phillippe had promised to marry me. We were engagé,” she said using the French term. “We were going to tell my father but we never had the chance.”

“What happened to the baby?” Phryne asked gently.

“She died of polio, two years ago.”

“That must have been very hard.”

“It still is. I think of her every day.” The mood in the interview room grew even more somber and no one spoke for a few minutes. Jack finally broke the silence.

“Is that why you wanted to kill Natan, I mean Phillippe?”

“No. Although I was very angry at him for leaving us. But it was the war and terrible things happened. At first I thought he might have died. But then when I started getting money from Australia, I realized he must have left France. It made me angry but I needed the money.”

“So why did you wait to come here until after your daughter died?”

“I found something out about him.”

“Yes?” Phryne asked. 

“His name was not Phillippe Mercier. It was Phillippe Maes.”

“’Feel up mice’, Jack. That’s what Bert and Cec overheard – Phillippe Maes. That’s the thing that has been niggling me.” Turning back to Francoise, Phryne continued her questions. 

“Was Phillippe Flemish?”

“We didn’t know that when we knew him, but we know it now.”

“So his real name could have been Phelups Maes?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher. You are starting to understand.” Francoise Letourneau looked sadly but angrily at the two detectives.

“And he wrote for Flamenpolitik,” Jack observed, opening his file and taking out the copy of Flamenpolitik that Dot had found at the bookshop. 

“Yes.”

“He wrote the article that alerted the Germans to the resistance.”

“Yes. I knew my father was helping the resistance and I told Phillippe thinking that would make him proud of us. Phillippe said he wanted to help so my father invited him to some meetings.”

Phryne took the file that Jack was holding and pulled out the letter they had found in Natan’s bedroom. She handed it to Francoise.

“In your letter you said that your father thought that Phillippe was only after your family’s money. Yet, you say now that your father invited him into the resistance in Roubaix.”

“My father didn’t want me to marry Phillippe but that was different from wanting help for the resistance in Roubaix. The city was occupied through the entire war. Having extra hands was necessary. My father didn’t know that Phillippe was a spy and a traitor. None of us did.”

“When did you find out that Phillippe Mercier was Phelups Maes?”

“After the war the French and Belgian governments began arresting collaborators and putting them on trial. In 1925 the newspaper in Roubaix confirmed that the bombing of my family’s house was because of the story that Phelups Maes wrote in the Flamenpolitik and published a photograph of the staff. Phillippe was smiling in that photograph, Miss Fisher. Smiling.” Francoise spit out the last word and stared hard at Phryne and Jack. “What would you do?”

“Why weren’t you at home that night?” Phryne asked.

“Because Phillippe had convinced my family to let him take me out for supper and a dance. He knew that the house would be bombed. He knew …”. Despite her defiant attitude a moment before, she collapsed onto the interview table in sobs. Phryne came around the table to hold her until she calmed down. 

“Who are the men that were working with you to kill Monsieur Maes?” Jack asked quietly after Mademoiselle Letourneau had calmed down. 

“Men who I hired when I arrived here. I was told that I could find the right kind of man for this job at the docks. They had both served in the French army on the eastern front and were happy to take the job.” 

“Were you there the night he was beaten?” Jack asked. 

“Yes. We thought he was dead or we would have carried on until he was. It felt good.”

“Despite your tragic story, Mademoiselle Letourneau. I still have to charge you with the murder of Natan Phillippe, aka Phillippe Mercier, aka Phelups Maes.” 

“I don’t care. Everything I love is gone. Better I should be too. What is it that your Mr. Dicken’s said? ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’”

Phryne turned away to hide the tears welling in her eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

As Jack completed the process of charging Francoise Letourneau and her two accomplices, Phryne joined Dot at Librarie d’esprit where they were contemplating closing up the shop for good. 

“That’s incredibly sad, Miss,” Dot said as she wiped tears away after Phryne told her the story of Francoise Letourneau. 

“You’re right, Dot. It’s the stuff of a Thomas Hardy or Charlotte Bronte story.” 

The two women sat in their chairs and sipped tea quietly reflecting on what had happened and what to do next. 

As they sat, Jack arrived carrying the copy of Erasmus that Phryne had left at the office. 

“Come in, Jack. We are just having a sad cup of tea. But we also have Mr. Butler’s excellent biscuits.” 

“Bitter sweet, as they say.”

He held up the rare volume. “Mademoiselle Letourneau did identify this as belonging to her father. It had been stolen shortly before the bombing. I’m afraid it seemed like adding insult to injury finding out that her darling Phillippe had also been a thief. She mentioned several other volumes that were stolen.” He handed Phryne a list.

Phryne and Dot went through the rare books cabinet and found several of the volumes. “I suspect we may find the rest with Lawrence Mitchell and some other rare book buyers who don’t care about provenance.” 

“But even the ones left here are worth a fortune. Are there any heirs?” 

“Not according to Miss Letourneau. Her family were all killed in the blast. I suppose there may be cousins or other distant relatives. Among the other problems caused by wars is that family trees have a lot of branches broken off.”

“As well I know, Jack,” Phryne said reflectively. He nodded slightly in acknowledgement of Phryne’s own shattered family tree. She had inherited her title when the heirs to the Richmond estate had been killed in the Great War. 

“Did Natan have a will?” Jack asked.

“We haven’t found anything like that but we haven’t really looked, have we Dot?”

“No, Miss. But I have been through most of his personal papers and I haven’t seen anything that looks like that.”

“That means that his estate will likely be forfeit to the state and all of this will be sold.” Jack waved his arm to indicate the entirety of the book shop. 

“That just adds another crime to the litany in this case,” Phryne replied. 

“I have an idea.”

“Yes, Miss Williams?” Jack and Phryne turned to Dot who was smiling.

“The rare books belong to Miss Letourneau, right?”

“I suppose so,” Jack answered. 

“Do you think that she might be willing to give them as a gift to Miss Bell and Miss Levine?”

“Why would she do that, Dot?” Phryne asked looking intrigued but still puzzled. 

“Then they could buy the bookshop when the state sells it after the forfeiture.”

“Genius, Dot. Even if Francoise despised Phillippe, perhaps her love of books will be enough to want to support these young women and the book trade. It might be a way to make sense of an otherwise terrible tragedy. Go and find the two writers and ask them if they would be willing to run the shop. It is a lot of work on top of writing books.”

After confirming that the two young women were more than willing to take over the shop, Jack and Phryne took Miss Bell and Miss Levine as well as the proposal to Francoise Letourneau at the Melbourne Prison for Women where she was awaiting her trial. 

“Give the rare books to these two young women so they can continue to write and to run the shop?”

“Yes, Francoise. It would continue your father’s legacy despite the horrors in between his death and now.” 

“It is a good idea. I have no need of these things and there is no one else left. But I have one condition.”

“Yes?” Miss Bell and Miss Levine spoke at the same time, excited at the prospect of their own business. 

“Change the name to something different. Librarie d’esprit was the name of my father’s shop in Roubaix. It is time for that chapter to end. My daughter’s name was Romane. You could call it ‘des Livres romane’ which is a joke on novels.” 

“What a good idea!” Miss Levine exclaimed. “We will do it.”

Phryne spoke up, “I have an excellent woman lawyer who can draw up the paper work. I will arrange for her to meet you here, Mademoiselle Letourneau. She might also be able to help you with your criminal matter.”

“I have no need of a criminal lawyer, Miss Fisher. I no longer wish to live. But I am happy that my daughter’s name and my father’s love will live on.” Turning to the young writers she said, “write good stories, mes filles. Fill the world with happiness.”

As they left the jail, Jack turned to Phryne and said, “one more stop.” She arched an eyebrow but said nothing until they pulled up in front of a large home in Melbourne’s Domain Precinct. “Lawrence Mitchell’s home,” Jack said as he opened her door for her.

When Mitchell answered Jack’s policeman’s knock the Inspector presented a warrant. “We are here to search your house for stolen books.” 

“Hey, Inspector. I never stole anything before that night your lady detective found me. I paid good money for everything I have.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Mitchell, we are still going to search for books on this list which have been reported as stolen and if we find them we will charge you with knowingly receiving stolen property. I believe you told Miss Fisher that you were unconcerned about provenance.”

“I’ll have my solicitors all over that.”

“Or perhaps there is another option?” Phryne said giving Mitchell a hard stare.

“Which is?”

“Back off on Lindy Bell and Samantha Levine. Hand over the ‘stolen books’ for them to sell in their new shop and negotiate a new contract with your authors that changes your 70% to 25%.” 

“Or what,” Mitchell responded defiantly.

“Or make the headlines of the tabloids as you march into City South in handcuffs.”

“Inspector, are you going to be a party to blackmail?”

“I don’t hear any blackmailing going on, Mr. Mitchell. I hear a citizen proposing a perfectly reasonable informal settlement of an unfortunate situation in which you wound up being potentially liable for a crime by not too much fault of your own. Natan Phillippe had you believe that the books provenance was dubious but not stolen by traitors. Agree to the arrangement and you look the hero and not the heel.” 

Lawrence Mitchell looked at the two detectives and threw up his hands. “Deal.” 

Neither Phryne nor Jack were surprised to see photographs of Lawrence Mitchell a few days later handing the books over to des Livres romane above a story about his magnanimity.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a kind of fun diversion. As soon as the bookstore idea occurred to me, this chapter was inevitable. Many thanks to Propangel for beta read and helping me track down other authors. thanks to DeVereWinterton, PromisesArePieCrust and Justsare for letting me use their works. They are all hyperlinked in the text.

“Hello Hugh, is Jack there?” Phryne was calling City South from the newly established des Livres romane. It was late afternoon and she had been helping the two young women redesign the space to reflect a more modern and female ownership and to sweep away the sadness that had resulted in the change of ownership.

“Yes, Miss Fisher. He’s right here.” Constable Collins handed the phone to a quizzical but smiling Jack Robinson.

“Miss Fisher. Any murders to report?”

“Hah, no Jack. But perhaps a scandal nonetheless. I think you should come over to des Livres romane to inspect some books with me.”

Recalling the last time he inspected books with Phryne he swallowed hard and paused to ensure his voice was normal.

“More special collections, Miss Fisher? Perhaps you should just call in the vice squad.”

“Of a sort, Inspector. But they may require your personal review before involving any third parties.”

“Miss Fisher, you are making me nervous.”

“Nothing to worry about, Jack. Just come along to the bookstore. But leave Hugh behind.” She paused, then said, “and bring your bottle of Highland Park.”

Jack groaned inwardly but also felt a flutter of excitement. Perhaps this was the night?

When Jack arrived at the bookshop, only Phryne was present and she locked the door behind him. “Closing time,” she chirped happily and retrieved the bottle of Highland Park from his inside coat pocket.

He took the bottle back and poured out generous measures into the two glasses awaiting them on the counter.

“Lead on. Show me this special collection.” He was glad that his voice didn’t betray his nerves.

“When Lindy and Sam and I were sorting out the books and trying to decide what to weed and what to keep, I stumbled upon this area over here which doesn’t have a code in the Dewey Decimal System.”

“I didn’t think that was possible. I mean at least a subject matter code.”

“I suppose we could use sociology but Natan labelled it ‘Phrack’.”

“What do you think that stands for? I’ve been in the army and I am familiar with my share of innuendo but Phrack is a new one on me.”

“Try this one, it might enlighten you.” Phryne handed him a slim volume written by someone named Justare. The title was [Slow Burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123796/chapters/24827952). Take a look at Chapter 4. It isn’t like any stakeout I have ever been on, but I will keep that tip for staving off having to pee for future reference.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just read, Jack.”

Jack skimmed chapters 1 through 3 but when he reached the part where a character named “Jack Robinson” instructed someone named “Phryne Fisher” in some self-stimulation to keep from peeing her pants he gasped openly. “Does th… th… that even work?” he stuttered.

“I don’t know, Jack, but it would certainly be fun to try.” Phryne was laughing and smiling but also found herself highly aroused by imagining Jack watching her arouse herself.

“Then there is this one, at your house, where I have only been once before to invite you to a party.” She handed him a gaily coloured edition titled [Fowl Play](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948387) by an author named DeVere Winterton.

Jack knocked back his whisky and poured a fresh one as he skimmed the pages of a story about Phryne seducing him at his kitchen table. “Well, they got this part right, about you stealing my toast.” He was beginning to feel a bit weak in the knees.

“Where did all this stuff come from?” He turned to Phryne and handed back the book.

“I have no idea, Jack, but some of it certainly seems to reflect what is in my head.”

“You mean you think this kind of stuff about me?”

“Of course, I do, Jack. I’m a grown woman. I’m hardly going to spend all my time with a handsome man and not have the occasional ‘gaudy’ thought. Although some of these tested even my fantasies. I especially like this one and I will never look at your darbys in quite the same way again.”

Jack took the volume decorated with pictures of handcuffs from Phryne’s hand. It had the unusual title [Frisky Business](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12725184) by the unusually named Propangel.

“What is a Propangel?” he asked Phryne.

“Open the book and read for yourself.”

Jack started reading and Phryne could almost see his hair stand on end as he reached the part where he had Phryne pressed up against the wall in her parlour.

“Miss Fisher, I mean Phryne, I mean, I’ve never, I, I, …”

“Sounds like fun, don’t you think, Inspector?” Phryne had stepped up to Jack and was ‘adjusting’ his tie.

He reached over her shoulder and found another one called [Slow Start](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11441139) by someone called Promisesarepiecrust thinking that perhaps it might reflect his real feelings as opposed to the rather unreal feelings he was having with Phryne standing right against his rising erection.  He read aloud:

_“I do love you, you know,” she said from far away, only barely audibly. “No,” he said carefully. He stood still and swallowed. “Actually, no, I didn’t know that.”_

_She huffed and turned toward him. “Well for heaven’s sake Jack, do I have to beat you over the head with it?” she said, actually sounding angry._

_“Well no,” he shot back, surprised at his volleying anger, “no, but it would be nice to hear. Phryne does it surprise you I can’t read minds? Not even yours?”_

_She sighed and turned away from him again, he was nearly certainly wiping tears. “I’m not thrilled at the idea of being madly in love with you. I’ve never noticed that it ends well, for anybody.”_

Phryne backed away, surprised at how accurately this author had captured her feelings. Jack looked at her face and said, “ah, closer to home?”

“Damn you, man.”

He looked into Phryne’s green eyes. “Do you truly love me?”

“Of course I do, Jack. Do you need me to hit you over the head with it?”

“So, what do we do?” he asked her. They were still standing only inches apart but it felt to Jack like miles.

“Start slow, I guess,” she replied.

“And if it all goes to hell?” he asked.

“Then it all goes to hell,” she replied. “What is it that Tennyson said? ‘Better to have loved and lost?’”

“I am not sure I could stand it, Phryne.”

“Nor could I. So either, we never love at all, or we take a chance.”

“I’m not much of a gambler.”

“And I’m not much of a sure thing.”

“A toast then,” Jack offered. “From Les Miserables, ‘To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further.’”

They clinked their glasses and then Jack put his hand around the back of Phryne’s head and drew her in for the kiss they had both been waiting for.


End file.
